East River

Grumbling Mrs Mumble
itching along the bridge
spitting spite at Canary Wharf
lit up like a constant fridge

chains jangle in a falsetto wind
seagulls a suicide laugh
Mrs Mumble fumbles in pockets deep
a dead sons photograph

blinks west across St Pauls
a five in the morning view
Mrs Mumble takes her final swim
into the forgiving and never blue

Mrs Mumble's boy was a sailor
who never sent a card
his soul burns brightly on the garden bonfire
though his bones are ebony charred