The river

On hot days we went to the river.

Nanna would give us a Rover’s

biscuit tin to catch sticklebacks. “Don’t

be long at the brook” she’d shout. But

me and Tina, we’d stand for hours,

dresses and jeans tucked up, balancing

on rocks to scoop up the fish as they

darted. They favoured the shadows of

the stone bridge where the water coursed slow

and cold. When our feet numbed we’d wade

to the sun or climb to sit on the

mud and grass banks amongst the smells of

earth and decay of plants. The river marked

the years. When my legs grew and the river

was no longer deep, I stopped fishing.

When nanna died, we cleared her flat. I

could see the bridge from the window,  the

fish and river hidden below the banks.