Downstream

Buscot Lock. I swallow some
water by accident and it tastes
like metal, but it’s clear
enough for me to see my
hands in the water, with a
faintly yellow tinge.
All around me the dock is
being churned up by
swimmers, arms and legs
thrashing, and I can’t quite
get the right rhythm, unable
to decide which stroke to use.
In the upper Thames I tried to
follow the curves of the river;