The River Wreake, Brooksby

Will Hatchett

What my life lacks is tranquility

People writhe like maggots to the top

And sink, and seethe in obscurity

Selling their CDs; it never stops.

A brief time away is all I ask

From this relentless self-expression –

London, where the poet’s lonely mask

Hides solipsism and depression.

Here, there are no angry commuters

Only the river's rippling green thread

No violent rhymes, no computers.

It's a peaceful return; instead

My canoe drifts between the crack willows

The wind plucks at my sides and billows