by Jo Bell

Tonight you moor at Tixall Wide beneath the giddy bats.
A heron tries one leg. The boat is tethered,
browses between bank and channel.

In dry dock once, you saw her settle on the bostocks,
wondered at her bulk; that welded self
as helpless as a brick. Her power’s in suspense.

You don’t need to travel far. You’re always home.
There’s comfort in the play of rope;
slack and tight, there and back.