'Why Rivers Run to the Sea' by Judy Darley

Don’t try to slow me, I have somewhere to be. The city of Bristol is just one rock on
my route. The sun is rising and I’m rushing with all my energy. I’m thinking in mud, in
weed, in the flurry of dropped takeaway cups, in the silt and shimmer that I carry
ensconced in the hinges of elbows and knees. I smell of green, of wet, of feathers. I
carry the calm of a kayak paddle’s splash, the dread of a parent, reflections of
clouds.

I sweep the flood of dawning understanding, of scientific conjecture, of poetry.

Seeds bob in my haste.

I’ve witnessed seagulls battling cormorants over eels (the eels usually slither free
mid-spat), and cradled people drown-dreaming after slipping from keels and quays.
I’ve seen bare legs dangle over jetties, signalling summer. I’ve watched mechanical
cranes dance. Recently, I’ve sighted otters.

I’ve dreamt of rising to swallow Bristol’s city-centre, once my harbour, of
reclaiming flagstones and steps with foaming waves. I’ve considered capsizing
bridges with one heave.

But my goal is further south and west. I run my fingers over clay and gravel,
deposit sand over chalk to build plateaus. My eddies sing a cappella with the racing
wind.

I hunger for salt. I call to the gulls to follow me. I ripple with the anticipation of
spider crabs, squat lobsters, cuttlefish, cup coral and squirts.

I crave the North Atlantic. My spine shivers with the instinct to surge in peaks.
Moonlight will shatter on my swells. I roll my troughs ready for the embrace of
mackerel and herring. I curl my whitecaps into scrolls.

Tides drag me with insistent caresses.

There's a storm coming, and I'm invited.