I crest that gentle, old, familiar hill,
and see, at last, the harbour
glowing in the distance.
She’s a-waiting, patiently,
upon one of those little houseboats
for my, long overdue, return.
Off-grid we live, Water Rovers,
moving from estuary to muddy bank,
all of the year ‘round,
apart from these three Winter months,
where we flock together,
deep in the curving arm
of this natural, wooded waterline.
Both front pockets a-jingling and a-jangling
with busked pennies, farthings and shillings.
I throw a whistle out
to accompany the swagger of my traipse.
I shift and adjust the bindle upon my back,
she’ll be as pleased as punch,
for I’ve scored four warm baby blankets
ready for the new arrival.
I kiss goodbye to the frothy dregs
of the flagon which has kept me company,
at bottom road kerbside.
Then cross the humpback bridge,
which hides out of sight,
behind the old granite Vicarage.
Where I start to hear the hustle and bustle,
laughter and singing
of the carefree River Folk,
with tankards full, and fires burning,
a-welcoming in the brand new evening.
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