Boathouse

(The subject of a dream 03.03am)

I chose the Boathouse or should I say it chose me.
Perfectly planked, varnished to a silky touch,
more cricket pavilion with the legs of a stork,
motionless, amongst the river’s margin.

At dawn, with fresh coffee on the verandah,
three shapes emerge from the reedy mist
grey bobbing leathery seals, abreast,
police frogmen, wading from the gloom.

“Child lost upstream, a mile or so”. Terse.
“They usually come this way”. Resigned.
“How can you do a job like this”. Incredulous.
“the secret is, not to look them in the eye”. Wearied.

Throughout the day, mooring ropes creak
and the lazy river slaps dumbly
on the weatherboards.
a mother’s gentle tap, asking baby politely for wind.

I found the child, or should I say she found me.
at 4pm,
a timid knocking on the slipway rail
as if calling round for tea.

Just her auburn crown floating,
an Ophelian bedraggled mist.
I scooped her up, taking care not to turn her over,
a little ragdoll princess from Elsinore.