Ol’ Man River

The flanks of the brown river beneath the massed and shadowless clouds fan out and slide into the shore.
Midstream the water is patchy but looks immune as armoured cars to being diverted by myths on the side.
The river is not an old man. Nor has it ever been the Mother no matter the evening pieties on show.
It is young blood obeying old commands to just keep rollin’ along. It bundles silt towards an ocean.