The Irwell - a river poem

Rock-solid ground loosens,

shifts to liquid,

slips fast away beneath my feet.

The water dreams of boats, of willow banks,

not a foul stream of refuse

but a seam alive with freshwater shrimp,

roach, and brown trout.

A mallard halts —

strums his feathers,

beats the air into rhythm,

poised to rise above this stretch,

this blue-lined artery

we call the River Irwell.

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