Read the Poem

Deep under Kingsway,
between the Castle peacocks
and ghosts of the grey friars,
secret water
scuttles in its culvert,

where once a child
leaned on the parapet,
her feet not touching ground,
dipping for coins
in her father's pocket.

That parapet of stone
above the lost canal
where fifty years ago
boys dived for pennies
from the bridge.

White as museum marble,
or brown as mahogany,
their skinny shoulder blades
like broken wings,
they flew, free-falling

through green light
to a gasp of cold,
to surface, blowing water,
shaking sleek heads,
pennies bright on their open palms.

Heading down Kingsway,
stalled in homebound traffic,
remember the water-boys,
and down there in the dark,
the lost gold-horde.