The Watercress Men

We stirred shrimps from chalky mud
pinched them into milk bottles
cut sticks to dig for crayfish
as two men slowly moved across
distant cress beds filling baskets.
One was old and pale, the other
rounded, red. Both silent, steaming

breath at the start of darkness.
Children ran to different houses.
I ate then slept on the top bunk.
Creaking bed boards. Pincers snipped.
Fear of a forgotten dream.
I stared into darkness knowing
the curtains never quite closed.
Sleeping fish snapped awake. Crayfish
sifted sand. The alders roared.

I shuddered asleep. Breakfast smells
and cups in the sink as I splashed
my face, ran downstairs, pulled on boots
to go and play in the streams.
My dad told me to keep away
from the bank and not to annoy
the watercress men who’d cut
my throat like a fistful of stems.

I laughed, ran, paddled in the stream
rubbed freezing feet warm and clean
waited for friends who never came.
People stared from cars passing
on the lane. Men unloaded
trays from a van. They sharpened blades
then waded closer. String pulled tight
on the first bunch of cress as I ran.

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