GOOD OLD FRIENDS
I want to stop them sliding off
Down the misty stream. The barge is full
Of good old friends in dialogue
With one another (but not with me)
Eighty, a hundred years ago.
My notional boathook catches air.
Their chatter fades. I am left with
Still, amazingly, one of us,
Who sits with me on the landing stage,
Wiggling toes in the dark cold stream,And talks to me of her dream rushes.