Kew Watercolour

The queue at Kew is back gate
On the river,
A mud flat armada fresh dined on
Autumn squalls
Seek sanctuary and my bread roll,
Turning the air sharp
With their soap opera cries.
And around the bend
There comes in view
A lonely water boatman
Cambridge with cold,
Skulling lockward to Richmond.
Mallards transvestite with their
Last fat chicks of summer
Rush to and fro like excited
Coach trippers.
And overhead I see
The Canadian aerobatics team wheel
The sky
Winter one last nesting flight away
Whilst mud flatted,
Rust chipped,
And clinker built
A boat lazily leans against the mooring pillars
And banks burst to silver
In the misty mid-day air.

(c) 1994