Narrative? There is no narrative. Unless you meanthe mice-scratch of voices rising from the reeds’
silty bed or the latent lick of water rimming the bankfrom a rower already beyond the curve of the river.
Yet ever, as the last harsh of the late returning crow,deep-locked, shackles the evening, there remains,
unresolved but latched in re-arrangements of light, air,stealth, in a conspiracy of shadows, such a hunger
for the unremembered that even a midge or squall of dustrecalls maps of countries no longer named and those
who have no purchase trace, with naked eye, the plane’sarc prinked in the sky like stars in a child’s colouring book.