A clay pipe

For Chris

As news of the invading Dutch fleet 

travelled slowly across the city 

the pipe was snapped by one who is long dead 

and forgotten. A remnant of history.

Sluiced from a storm drain into the river 

bowl and stem were touched by eels

layered in an invisible jeopardy

a shifting pavement of slime and ships' nails. 

Years passed. New outrages were observed.

The man who blew out lungfuls of air 

died and was buried somewhere.

At night, the sky thundered with war.

His tiny act went unrecorded.

Each tide brought new whispers and rumours

until one bright London morning 

I found his clay pipe stem, on the foreshore.