Passage West

My father said that people who were drowned in the river
were carried home on a door.

Coming off the street
a gust tries to butt us.

When we turn our heads,
wrong-foot the wind,
a clap of suds rises on the steps.

The river overlaps the wall,
where just beyond,
the current turns in its sleep.

My mother takes us
by the spare of our coats,
drags us back from the edge.

At the far side of the quay,
two boys with monkey arms are leaning
for driftwood.

We are shifting against the gale,
salt spraying,
all sound blocked in our ears.

Out-stretched, the boy has gone over,
broken through glass
to the other side.

She holds a plank,
brings him back, ropes his arm
from its socket.

Tonight, laid flat,
I follow the procession, sense the heat
of a lamp creeping up my sleeve.