Downstream

dappled in shadow from
overhanging trees. The water
today is as green as
Whistler’s mural. The
afternoon is sticky and
muggy, we’re disturbed by
planes overhead and
motorbikes on the road
behind us, and I have to listen
carefully to hear Doloranda
as she tells me the story of
her mother and the Thames.
‘What do you think this
was like,’ I ask, ‘when