Night River

by Eleanor Rees


Night River

East to west, west to east,

wetness crawls

 

the promenade wall.

Oil and chemical, salt and tar:

the night is in my throat.

I consume distances

at the edge of the river,

 

three am, solitary

held only by the rain and the sky.

The wind’s touch is courageous.

The stars are stags,

antlers pointed at each new shore

 

sailors discover

far from here, in some sunny waters.

I open to it like a mouth and sense her shining

full height on the horizon,

 

as if the horizon is a ledge she balances upon,

 

and hovering I rush to her,

her starriness, her electric pulses

 

that beckon, she widens:

 

I immerse myself in her thighs.

Her whiteness, her size.

 

I am her: the sea is a boat.

We ride until the dawn.

© Eleanor Rees, Andraste’s Hair (Salt, 2007)