By moor land
On hot days we went to the river.
Nanna would give us a Rover’s
biscuit tin to catch sticklebacks. “Don’t
be long at the brook” she’d shout. But
me and Tina, we’d stand for hours,
dresses and jeans tucked up, balancing
on rocks to scoop up the fish as they
darted. They favoured the shadows of
the stone bridge where the water coursed slow
and cold. When our feet numbed we’d wade
to the sun or climb to sit on the
mud and grass banks amongst the smells of
earth and decay of plants. The river marked
the years. When my legs grew and the river
was no longer deep, I stopped fishing.
When nanna died, we cleared her flat. I
could see the bridge from the window, the
fish and river hidden below the banks.