I stand on the broad bank to watch it flow –
a deep, muddy incursion swirling at its mouth,
depositing a layer of dredged up silt
to cover up its sins along the way.
It descended from the high ground
through bright cities and lit farms
to turn its sinewed back quite suddenly
on the soft insidious lowlands of the south.

And then, with nowhere left to go,
I turned to the spur that punctuates the sea.

The swerving lighthouse held me in its arms.