Fish
A few hours after dawn, under a
bridge in the middle of the city, a wooden rowing-boat, with two fishermen in
it. Downstream is the outlet from the printworks, where the swans gather in a
rush of warm water; upstream the corrugated cardboard factory, a choking smell
of damp paper. Along here, the river's shut in, with straight-sided banks and
paved paths, squared off like a canal. I would never expect fish to be here. I
would think that they would stay in the greener shady places where the river
edges what were once water-meadows (sand and gravel still), now playing-fields.
That night I dream of the fish in
the river. The river's course has straightened, blocked off into a long narrow
pool: a tank in a Mughal miniature. The city walls are smooth and high,
fortified, with watchtowers, and the buildings crowd up against them: towers,
domes and minarets. It's after dark, and a single fish hangs in the water,
gleaming in the night-time stone.
Anna Reckin
Line to Curve (Shearsman, 2018)
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