Cresswell Quay

posted in: Poems 2014 | 0

The Cresswell Arms reach further than the bar

where local ale slips down the gullet easily,

where rejuvenation lingers in the landlord`s eyes.


On the old quayside the pub benches host families

and teenagers, buckets of water and captured crabs.

The kids dangle long lines of wriggling bait over

the sharp drop, their faces full of the hunt.


The tide is out and the reed beds sing an aria

in the jet stream. Old oaks rustle in the ruins

of the ancient manor`s mortar, and the forested

hillside plays a drum beat, echoes from a tribal camp

of young things finding their feet.


Down in the mud flats the Cresswell moves in its little swell,

and waits for another flood. The stepping stones are baked dry

in today`s hot sun as many shoed and naked feet walk and run

to its other marshy shore.

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