Where are the boats?

The boats don't come and the river shrinks.

The seaweed and barnacles crack,

Bleached on the feet of the jetty.

And the gentle rain falls elsewhere.

The brilliant boats, all different,

Shining and dark, vast and tiny,

Twinkling in the night,

Clamouring by day,

Jostling on the tide, bumping,

Rubbing colour on old scars.

Out of the shimmering haze they'd sail,

Barely there. Shapeless, slippery shades,

Far, far from fingers, itching.

Then suddenly - here!

A quick tack, and snap!

The ropes slap ,

The hold lets go

The putty and pumice and plantain and potties,

The shot putters, shooters and fleeces and dresses,

The favourite thingies and thingies that fear us or cheer us or spear us,

In Byzantine friezes or mortuary freezers,

For slicing and dicing and putting and placing and cutting and mulling,

Until it is just so.

But no.

They are not seen on the horizon.

They could not even reach the jetty.

Where are the boats?

How do I call them?

Could I summon just one?

A wracked and stuttering hull,

Dragged through the slurry to the shore.