William And Me Copyright © 08 Paul Jenkins

Just
William,
Conyer Creek,
and me sitting on the sea-wall
gazing inland
across the flat, green and brown marshland
where cream-coloured sheep
and cows graze.

A flock of barking Canada Geese,
winging out to sea
and flanked by two swans,
skid to a halt on the mud bar
in the oily, salt estuary.

William
armed with fishing rod
and a tin of squirming, multi-coloured maggots,
wanders expectantly
along the fat and lazy
silver-wormed river
in search of “carp”,
the only fish he know of
or is able to recall,
determined “by *!+” to catch one,
or anything else that’s game enough
to bite a blue, red, green or yellow
leather-skinned maggot.
The long, green rushes
with their shaggy manes,
snatch at the tip of his rod
and float.
“Paul!
Paul, is there fishing
biting over there?” he calls.
“Nothing is there, Paul.
Paul! Nothing is there!
Shall we go home in a minute, Paul?
Paul! Can I have a cigarette?
Will you make me one?”

The conflict between
himself,
the river
and me,
irritates,
as does the monotonous hum
of a light aeroplane overheard,
searching in vain
like William and me,
for something
that is not to be found.

The flies and the bees
drone on
as William announces,
“Ready, Paul!
Paul!
Paul!
Boat,
over there!”