Last summer, I read about a river mostly & after supper

I’d go out in his jumper — crossing [         ] Rd with the ironed fabric

down to my knees, so keen to see what the page

spoke to me

a girl of twenty something — riparian head spooling soft curls splitting

like seams

the second-hand hat of a

twenty something body

from the waist up

all manner of star-lit veins

lighting the way

to what the book printed

on a page

Reading is one thing 

There is a different smell, like sweetener

to this summer — as I cross [         ] Rd with the ironed fabric

of my own clothes, the names of wildflowers

fizzing my tongue

this common journey

of yearning for less artificial language

the acrobatics of speech

turning itself

snowdrop — crocus — daffodil

my riparian head

reaches what looks like a river

my still

twenty something body

touching her knees in places

in remembrance

of unreal waters

& pages

from the waist down

of a body

crossing back across [         ] Rd.

Writing is another