In a pub in Wapping, letting the cream of my pint settle. The windows overlook the Thames, at low tied, with the Marine Police on the right and a large commercial ferry port on the left. Dividing the two is a beach of mud and the river lapping at the shore.
Mud, so far removed from a metropolis. Filth that clings and stains, just to clothing, nothing else. Covered up, as if embarrassed about something. A taboo we just can’t break. Even the rustic cobbles are against it. Like flesh bound in a burka, yet no mind lingers on what lies beneath.
Mud, useless dirt, fit for nothing other than holding foundations in place. Purposeless mud, like wasps or mosquitoes the world would be a better place without it. Utterly dispensable.
What man in London gets his hands dirty? Where are the grimy boots trailing a sodden mess across the laminate floors? Where is the man caked in the stuff and standing at the bar?
Somewhere over there, beyond the imagination. Where Ryanair does not fly. Where the listless youth of Britain do not go to settle themselves back on the path of dreary comfort.
Mud is for other countries, not ours. And anyway, they probably love it! What else is there to amuse them? Rolling around in it like the dogs that they are.
Still, a foot beneath our assumed royalty, as the shore at Wapping suggests, is mud. Silent yet throbbing with potential.
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Wapping Docks
In a pub in Wapping, letting the cream of my pint settle. The windows overlook the Thames, at low tied, with the Marine Police on the right and a large commercial ferry port on the left. Dividing the two is a beach of mud and the river lapping at the shore.
Mud, so far removed from a metropolis. Filth that clings and stains, just to clothing, nothing else. Covered up, as if embarrassed about something. A taboo we just can’t break. Even the rustic cobbles are against it. Like flesh bound in a burka, yet no mind lingers on what lies beneath.
Mud, useless dirt, fit for nothing other than holding foundations in place. Purposeless mud, like wasps or mosquitoes the world would be a better place without it. Utterly dispensable.
What man in London gets his hands dirty? Where are the grimy boots trailing a sodden mess across the laminate floors? Where is the man caked in the stuff and standing at the bar?
Somewhere over there, beyond the imagination. Where Ryanair does not fly. Where the listless youth of Britain do not go to settle themselves back on the path of dreary comfort.
Mud is for other countries, not ours. And anyway, they probably love it! What else is there to amuse them? Rolling around in it like the dogs that they are.
Still, a foot beneath our assumed royalty, as the shore at Wapping suggests, is mud. Silent yet throbbing with potential.