A poem by Ali Rowland
We meet him just after a heatwave has broken,
and the air feels as thick as honey, difficult to breathe.
Perhaps that’s why we wonder if he’s an apparition,
maybe the ancient ferryman, although he says he rows
the dinghy that takes tourists to the hermit’s cave,
across the spot where it’s easy to throw
a stick, a ball, or a thought across.
Anyway, he asks if we have seen the kingfisher, or any otters,
but no, we’ve only seen the ducks with their inverted bums,
and the piles of floating scum that might disguise crocodiles
in more exotic places.
It starts to rain a little as we talk, warm, swollen drops,
and we see the boatman’s getting wet, surely proof
he’s not a ghost, and that this is not always a magic river.
Author’s note: This poem is, as they say on Netflix, based on ‘true events’ and chats we’ve had along the river. Only the ghostly part is fiction.
CRAG 