The Dee Bore
a Roman-straight road
There used to be a ferry man
tacking together the frayed edges
before this steel-edged rivet.
Upstream the city and the weir
downstream the flatlands and the face-whipping wind
home of fat-bellied planes bumbling in with high tech pollen.
The people pause
peer along the canalised banks:
and, on cue, the silver line
becomes dashed. Salt meeting sweet.
A place to cut or fold?
The sea shrugs.