Wicker | Chris Jones

Swing the water’s door
on blue sky, purling brickwork,
and sun-shoaled windows.

Buoyed on these midstream
popples, I dream an otter.
Its head is a nib
writing light, throat quicksilver.
Whiskers bristle out winter.

Black bricks and smoke drift;
the prows of lit factories
rumble downriver.

Squat, green bulbs, bitter
as smoke, I offer you figs
from Sheffield’s east end.
They have exile’s toughened flesh
and skin; its deep-cut bloodline.

Your small hands ripple
the washed bullion of stars,
this moon’s scratched pewter.