The liquor on blue-bloodied hands
is thicker than the weightless rain
which neither soaks nor goes to marry
waters which will slog to Teston Lock,
but parks on gladdened shoulders
neat diamonds for the Onyx berries
hiding, fragile, under Hawthorn’s shield.
Heroic teasel limpets smother
as we bimble ever higher and,
tattooed by bramble scalpels,
we make our sacred blood oath:
we’ll know this riverside allure
like the backs of our punctured hands
and their stunning crimson crows’ feet.