By Alan Buckley
but this is a winter spate. Our forty-footer’s
hurried down the Thames from Swinford reach.
At King’s we steer to the lock, then slide into
its chamber, moonishly still, a semi-colon;
the keeper sets his back to the balance beam,
captures us in a pause of cropped grass,
flowers bedded in squares. Behind a screen
of trees, the feral river charges the weir
then bursts back into view, dark and foaming.
It surges hard, pummels the lower gates.
The man strolls past us, a limited god
in short sleeves, sturdy trousers. You’ll need
to give it some. Keep both hands on the tiller.
He spins the sluice-wheels. Gently, we descend.
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We sent Daniel back to Seattle on Monday -- my mother drove to Dulles, much to my gratitude because since they started the Metro work I absolutely hate that drive! He has already landed and is getting settled with his new MAGFest art and warmer weather. Meanwhile Adam is flying back to the US from Israel in a few hours, though I think they snuck out to the beach late at night one last time.
We had sleet and freezing rain on and off all afternoon and evening, so I stayed in after dropping off Daniel and Paul worked from home in the late afternoon because so many people had left to pick up their kids from early dismissal. Now we're hoping Georgia beats Alabama in championship overtime! From Great Falls on Sunday, some photos of ice on the river, since the canal had been drained to protect it:
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