I am crossing the ravine with my daughter
when my patchwork jacket falls
into water which is soft and steaming
with disease, too deep to retrieve
with simple stick or hands that also reach
for my daughter
as she crosses Grant and Gordon,
Eleventh Street, then disappearing
along the train line.
I am calling out to her. Calling
into the shimmering distance.
Calling into the future.
Suddenly I realise that a metal hook
which sailors use
to pull detritus from the sea
is leaning to be used from a barbadine vine —
a blink away
from my writing hand.