Twisted Fish

TWISTED FISH I have a brief hallucination of small crisp leaves lying like pieces of dried-up skin on riverine paving stones. Tourists move in shoals beneath the trees. I reach the place of plunder and brag: needle and memorial, statues of twisted fish. Westminster: I have come too far. A copper in shirtsleeves stands at the stern of a boat as it turns into the current. Such is the river: choppy and brown; it slops and smacks concrete, wood and brick, agitated about something.