No one (in their right mind) blames an empty boat,
runs the wisdom, nodding wooden prow in the current;
nor will an empty boat complain of the twirling stream,
the banks it runs up against, the reeds which park it.
So make a virtue of necessity -
what is winter for but driving in dusk and darkness? -
letting the congestion from Manchester
be a bunch of rear-light roses, and off motorway
the uneven road play pass-the-pothole;
yet the inner way hits all red lights, all potholes:
long journeys comb regrets from decades,
and even an empty boat might sigh a scythe
through reeds.
Let's change the game, Eros,
and pluck a reed to warble through
to sing those transient strings,
the red lights pacing, the white lights passing
splashing dark gunwales.
