The Inevitable Morning

By the side of the Thames, I watch the water, blue calm reflecting calmer skies, fluffy clouds in a Ladybird Books sky. The water is split by rowing boats. Someone in another boat shouts approval, or dissent; "Stop stopping!".
It rises up from the water as inevitable as morning. Oh, bird-flu god, here you are again. Ragged seaweed ribcage dripping with cold water the colour of everything lost; love, days, that toy you had when you were a kid. Skull made of twisted branches, and no eyes, but the hollows there glint with an anti-jewel; you didn't bury me last autumn. Stretches out it's cold winds, and should take to the sky, some February apocalypse, but I glance back again, and the bird-flu god is gone, back under water to drift and dream and wait for that inevitable morning again.
Delays on the train coming back, stuck at Clapham and East Croydon. Some power failure at Purley. Carriages rammed with unfortunate passengers. Nothing works here - even the information screen is showing orange static. No stations, no destination.
I do the crossword with Em, and try to read Peter Akroyd's The English Ghost.
Sometimes it seems the train isn't moving, but we only get back an hour later than we would have anyway.