The Dee Bore

Ancient, they say:



a Roman-straight road



bisecting lines



marking clusters



making grids.



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



wait



peer along the canalised banks:



and, on cue, the silver line



crumples



becomes dashed. Salt meeting sweet.



A place to cut or fold?



The sea shrugs.