Low Tide (a London reflection for Holy Saturday)

It's a long way from the sea here.

Yet you can still feel the pull. That twice-daily drag - in, out as the moon has her say.

And at low tide, so much is revealed. Sand and mud and rubbish. The dregs of Berkshire, washed up on a foreshore in the city.  A new world, changed twice a day.

The river shuffles with the changing tide - glinting silver and blue in a wash of sluggish gray. A can bobs in the water, waiting for something to happen.

Behind the conversions, obscured by banks and insurers, you see glimpses of Wren's treasures. Purveyors of boutique faith for the specialist.

While Mr Pooter struggles across London Bridge in the traffic. Getting nowhere fast, the traffic news from 5 Drive mocking. Another hour till he's home. The Pooters live in Purley now. Well, you'd get your head kicked in if you walked around in Holloway these days, with a name like Lupin. The joggers run past, grinning through the pain.

Once this place thronged with watermen and lightermen. Rough men with rough language, who'd not even let a prince take a trip without a few well-placed words. Men who ran the city, when the river was at high tide. But now, as the traffic creeps over, a few boats troll up and down. River taxis and tourists. That's all.

Old Father Thames sighs, and swirls, and kicks a plastic bottle around. And waits for the tide to come in.