Theres is thick salt from a million tides under my wet fingernails. A brown pebble with fossil dents drops in a pocket. For nearly a decade I have watched people on the the river bed from the path above. Some drink, walk in hunches for treasure or scrap art in the sand.
Steep flights of metal take my feet down, finally down to the stones and mud a city rose from. Black bricks are wedged in the sand by rusted spikes, dog shit and broken glass.
The river pretends to be the sea today in a fuddled drizzly haze. The randomness of debris starts to take kn patterns; artworks of tidewash neglect. There is a piece of Thames in my pocket