midnight river



At midnight the river was wide, still 
and glistening with city lights. 
  The tide was low – lower than I’d ever seen it – 
 I was able to step far out across rocks usually submerged,
the water now drawn back out to sea. 
In this strange, transient place 
between the city and river, 
                      I could hear the soft lapping of water 
in the small pools between stones;
the eternal low drone of the electricity station 
further down the shore;
the engine of a taxi boat from far away 
until it stopped on the other side, 
  the echo of passengers’ voices carrying across the water.     Then, it was still. 
I had the feeling that I both should and shouldn’t be there, down by the river at night. 
                       I crouched low and sang to the water. 
The first song that came was a lullaby.



It was a rare moment when I could hear 
both myself and the river breathing. 
A glimpse into how differently the river would move,
            would sound, without human activity.
 I’ve spent lots of time on this beach, 
watching police boats speeding past
and making waves that crash noisily against the shore. 
I’ve listened underwater with a hydrophone 
and been able to hear a boat long before I could see it – 
          the engine’s vibration travelling far underwater. 
This river has carried humans for a long time.
Who is it when we are asleep?