Through boulders grey and honeycombed,

carving out a bed in time,

two rivers meet on the south west side.
The ebb and flow now

realigned.

Paved and railed.

Containerised.

Roadways hard against the tide.
To cross you, morning and at night.

Wetlands sleep beneath these lines.
I never wondered who you were – until

my sleep became disturbed – until

my feet were raw with nerves

unnamed yearning; – until

searching for a place to be.
I remembered:

water pooling in the yard,

algae blooming thick and green,

cracked soles and holes as my shoes sank

classroom cold,

June’s creeping damp.

The drain, once creek, now channelised,

rising through the night.
I wished I was the underlay:

the weave and weft of silt and clay

of saline marsh and sedge and

drift.
My carriage sways.

Trains glide along the causeway.
To cross you, morning and at night.

Wetlands sleep beneath these lines.

I cross you.