He stands out among the cockney glottal stops,
dropping soft consonants. He’s intimate
with every word, tip of tongue caressing teeth.
Let me trace the subtle geography of his mouth.
I’m heading north. Innocent. Voice unformed.
He’s many years an exile, vowels worn
by Thames and Cam, refusing to return.
Yet I press my ear to his chest

and hear the Tyne flood every breath,
hear dockers, fishwives, kittiwakes call

our startled hearts: two salmon leaping.