Poem by Dan Hackett

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The Moselle in Haringey

It rises, clean and clear, from near my house. Quiet as a mouse, it seeps from the soil, of Churchyard Bottom Wood.
If I could, I would bottle it and call it wine, make it thine; offer it to travellers who would wonder how far they had come from Alsace where the other river, near the Rhine, flows.
And here it disappears, underground to travel uncertainly, picking up misconnected grey water, and worse, the curse of urban living, to later emerge at Lordship Rec, a beck again, not a drain.
Getting light and air and being seen by people who care; those who value its burbling ways, like a newborn child after its dark, covered, inside life.
Wish it well. Tell it to be on its way; as tomorrow is another day and what that may bring we don’t know, but we pray that it will be good.