Low tide. Sweepcurve of water in the canal at daybreak –

two fingers of varnish over woodgrained sand,

stained brown by morning sunlight. Wet grey dust

swirls slowly upstream, first sprinkle of the day’s waste,

wiping itself clean against the current –

not dust. Fish. Tiny and fugitive, they shiver upstream,

clutching all they possess in a frantic wrestle

against aftershocks of water. Inch after furtive inch,

fins and tails toil through the impossible,

the ankle-chain clutch of the tide –

where have they come from, so close to the sea?

Escaped prisoners, perhaps, groping homewards again

after evading the tide’s guns and bootheels?

Or are they muddy pilgrims, illegals just across the border,

with frightened hopes for new life in their eyes?

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