OUSE.

Flushed at the back of a witch’s throat,
Coughing up ripples and sailing boats,
Slipping its banks in Ocean lock
Or sliding beyond on the way to York.
Though gone are the days when all sailed passed,
And history made for itself a cast:
Romans and Vikings and civil wars
On the rising tide of a river’s course.

Now trade and its trawlers no longer barter
Much further than Goole and its parlous charter,
But it’s still the most inland a sea route alights,
Though by autumn the water can cut overnight,
And those just in time deadlines require a ruse
To conceal the impact of the mighty Ouse,
That flows from the north towards every degree,
And carries the gene pool of you and of me.