Dwelling on my last mudlarking session yesterday, made me write this, and I thought I'd share.
Recede and all is water,
And mud, and smell of river & clay.
History is underfoot;
I trod on pipestems, and dinner plates,
Roof tiles and old pins,
Bottles and buttons, hundreds of years
Discarded and turned to
Slippy footings in the mud.
Swells from river traffic wash
And swash and reveal and conceal.
I’m lost in the scent & grit & grease of history,
Fragments of past humanity overwhelming
The stress of the current grind
And I am washed in the ever-rushing tide
Of past peoples’ lives.