I met Makris and Demeter
bent over a half-inflated dinghy
and me, the old boy,
interrupted their labour
with a brief history
of my youth on The Thames;
‘meander’ came back to me,
along with ‘blade’ and ‘gate’,
my recall faltered at Barcombe,
on a twist of The Ouse to Lewes,
their sure sweep of youth’s grace
patched my pause with their words,
they were back from The Anchor
to this downstream landing;
they sparkled in the late-May light
with an assurance, in such love,
and I walked on against the current’s force,
but only knee-deep in meadow grass.