Pass Over
Somehow it seemed out of place, a piece
Of driftwood, snagged on the bank by the new Spring weed,
Plumb-line dead between the two grey towers.
Rotten ringed, it should have glided past
Buoyant on the Wear's grey sliding mass.
It seemed anachronistic, sea-bound waste
Seen against that monumental mass
Of mortar, stone and earth Millennium dry.
Perhaps that explains why
I lay on my back and levered it away
With a long left leg. Off it span slowly about
Its thick, lump end. I watched it pass away
As long as the current would carry it – which was,
I knew, beyond the Cathedral hugging curve
Where the weir fractured flow and only lumps,
Of polystyrene, bobbing light,
Would float over, and pass away.
