Michael Blackburn

TWISTED FISH

I have a brief hallucination
of small crisp leaves lying
like pieces of dried-up skin
on riverine paving stones.

Tourists move in shoals
beneath the trees.

I reach the place of plunder and brag:
needle and memorial,
statues of twisted fish.

Westminster: I have come too far.

A copper in shirtsleeves stands
at the stern of a boat as it turns into the current.

Such is the river: choppy and brown; it slops and smacks
concrete, wood and brick,

agitated about something.