What if one chose to swim instead of ride,
Climbed, cold and dripping, from this blue river,
Refused towels and fires, every offer,
In preference of solitude? What if
The wet traveller had no choice—
What if an exterior force impelled
Such watery journeys? Picture it gone:
The bridge removed. The river, an ocean—
Or a widening gulf, shore receding.
Somehow, all boats turned sieve. No luxury
Of bus or bike. This is a strange country,
This of both crossings—destitute and rich,
Choosing and coercion, truth and fiction.
A land, in our minds, welcomes all drifters.
(inspired by a photograph by Robert M L Raynard)