Oxbow

Some rivers die a death of convenience,
leaving behind a body,

or a tomb shaped like a hook, the unfurling
cast of a reel as it merges with sky. You and I

were not meant to make it past summer.
Cradling dunes lined with marram held us

like mothers. If you’ve ever known thirst,
you know the unmistakable smell of water close by.

Trapped, held by the land,
some vernal poem forgotten by the channel.