A cold blast and we are underwater,
Swimming against a tide of grit and air.
Waves beat through our bones, wind weeps
Closing its lips on the sun. Salt streaks the horizon.

Today the river is broken backed, dented, raw,
Scraping at banks only deep water remembers:
Wood decays, stone polishes stone, relics
Of old London compost into food for eels.
Trees endure wind as they adore time,
Their roots grip the soft earth like claws.
Leaves ride invisible Furies, bare branches
Combing those high cloud creatures.

    When winter comes
Trees are dark bodies    that pulse and breathe

Far away, a forest whose city streets end
in silence echoes inside
wood and grain, my mouth on your mouth.
We are entangled like wild vines.