Of late, there have been rumours of fish,
of local evolution, of regeneration.
They say rusted cans have transformed;
grown fins, heroin holes for gills.
I’ve heard the pram, once prominent
as a fountain, is now spurting forth
at regular intervals, blowing its top
like a drunken whale, emerging at night
as the willows lean in to listen – such
learned trees. Murmurs of mattresses
shifting like sandbanks, carrying dead
dogs to the edge, clearing its depths.
All rumours of course; today strolling
past the bandstand with no band, I see
the willows idle, strumming the surface;
a lone fisherman with a net-full of beer.