River Irwell

By Richard Carl Mather

Rock-solid ground seems

To shift to liquid,

Flows fast away from my feet.

It dreams boats and willowy banks.

No deep stream of filth

But a rich seam of freshwater shrimp,

Roach and brown trout.

A mallard stops, strums

His feathers, beats his wings,

Ready to fly over this stretch

Of blue-lined water we call the Irwell.