A licence from the London Port
Authority to walk the Thames
low tide, troves aka Le Morte
d’Arthur, mudlark finds as whims
of time—an Anglo Saxon brooch
or seat springs from a Georgian coach.
Some, fanciful—the jackpot hoard
elusive to the end, a coin
with Cæsar’s head, or silver sword
hilt dated Battle of the Boyne:
the common ilk of clay bowl pipes
outpaces cracked daguerreotypes.
Norwegian buckles, a garnet
intaglio inscribed with fish,
a tangled skein of fishing net—
a marble in a bottle, swish
shoes, muddy but intact, or lead:
some Roman god without a head.
The way a man loves Burgundy
or books, or dawn that creeps along
the streets in Eighteen sixty-three,
the bridegroom etched as wedding song
into the pewter dish: his bride
in profile, lost upon the tide.
Estill Pollock | Players
Contents | Mudlark No. 74 (2023)