This Mallard stink of home,
this scent of three in one,
the river banks to left.
The Willow trails up scum
. A gramophone relents, its melody the oars,
the river bends, the stones,
the fissures in the boat
. A hand trumpets
the mud, the underside of love,
the pleasures of the reeds,
the hubbub of the spawn.
Raol Izzard