Poetry

Egford Brook

  Egford Brook, with Scum   For Alex   Heavy rain last night, now the brook runs full café latte with froth racing downstream   like traffic, the bubbles, but spinning, changing shape as they go, dirty curdles joining other bits, growing foam   here & there it hooks itself to branches, rocks— makes pocked soufflés, milkshake with gunge.   On the bends in the banks, it dumps custard pies, floats bread & butter pudding by the stones   (where children playing Squirrel Nutkin hopped to Owl Island and got water in their boots).   As if rushing straight from…

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