Swanney's Dead Bedriver, English poetry, David J. Bullen

Hopping watercrests and scarecrows in my midst,
the intame named greenseat
that says I love you so much.
Woven-natured arches and sunsetting palms.
Wind-trodden lie and scream in barking dead, they damn
the flowing river faint in stinking mud,
white livered in now sounding crude crowds.
Skyline fixed in a banked and thanked sort of way.
Sat pondered a pond, saint swanney and ducklings breezed
in a beige causeway but low tanks and templeweed surround.
Swanney's nested mellow to the trains molested yellow,
train dense of filling smoke and running tired.
Scavenger bank, low and long bridges take shadow, humming
chariots and overgrown gutterweed says swanney fly.
Dockland chicanery and axing taxes the pundit's pleasure,
riding singly, doubled to eights in anarchistic awe.
Low mountain in them, high stool in me.
'Cross dragonweed (their eyes feeling pleasure), pass
encumbering rich and maybe tarnished varnished,
Castle bent in wayside, shallow moat and pastured pleasant
as they play inside, shall see swanney and threshing mill weir,
shall pay any heed.
Bandstand in path's yoke, 'tis joke, nay see ever stand a band,
A monument to Vicky and Alice, maybe two captured in a
raspberry coloured parade.
Birch perched in jaded play and armless towering blunted,
stunted,
Boating kind in boatlake and slide weir, floating with ducks
in silken sulking dance.
Silver moon a dream evening, later in swanney's dead Bedriver.

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