The river holds many things.
She holds boats on her back: races, visitors, homes,
She holds the moonlight
and she throws it back up at me like confetti .
She holds my hand when all I can do is watch her
She laps at bottles graced by long-gone mouths
She carries memories downstream of sticks thrown in by children,
Of toes dipped in
She whispers to us as we kiss on the pier
I take you to her, all of you, and you don’t even realise.
I am nothing if not a girl held by the rise and fall of her breast