When river people cook in summer
onion skins sail their autumn colours
past the fluff of petals drenched
drunk on the romance of Spring.
We live on The Cut - our skins
of onion have stories inside,
older than Duffy’s Valentine.
We peel, slice, chop, flip, fry,
squeeze the juice from the loops
until those paper boats get lost
in river soup.
And I will miss them then,
when solstice spreads auburn
harvest jumble across the glass,
when willow banter, bray and wisp
in Fall, are work horse shape
on water - or when the dip
and glide of golden antlers
graze the shorter days, I will miss them,
River people’s paper boats
slicing the winter night soup.