Poet-in-residence
Cecilia Knapp is our first ever poet-in-residence, celebrating our five iconic bridges, our deep history, our role as a major funder, and the work of the many organisations we support
Night lark, low tide
Inspired by London’s mudlarks, Cecilia Knapp has used her role as our poet-in-residence to capture a night’s mudlarking, down on the Thames foreshore, below our bridges.
Night lark, low tide
Look down from any of our five bridges and you may see, at low tide, modern-day mudlarks studying the foreshore. They’re in search of treasure, and preserved history, the items lost and discarded into the river over London’s almost 2,000 year-old history.
Intrigued, our poet-in-residence, Cecilia Knapp, met with two licensed mudlarkers, Helen Stack and Lisa Osborne, in a Brick Lane café. Over coffee they shared some of their stories and their curious finds, inspiring Cecilia to write Night lark, low tide, which you can read below.
We are grateful for the support of The Poetry Society, with whom we are partnering on this project.
Anyone searching the foreshore requires permission from the Port of London Authority. Their website also advises on the potential hazards of exploring the foreshore.
Read the poem
Night lark, low tide
The moon’s a peach tonight, juicy in the velvet sky.
What’s that sound? The tinkling on the foreshore
of an old clay pipe. The waves bring it in, then out
like breathing.
See that? The swipe of a headtorch, light, streaking
through the dark in bright ribbons. And in the distance,
a figure bent at the middle, small trowel in hand.
How’s it so quiet down here on this small lip
of beach? All around, the city heaves.
The river inhales again, recedes, reveals
the wet mud studded with garnets, faceted
and gleaming wet, like pomegranate seeds.
Get your eye in now;
shard of dinner plate — golden ring — farthing for the wherryman — handmade pin — blue glass smoothed and rubbed by time — tiny pearl — mustard spoon — small bone domino — old bricks rounded into spuds
a wish rolled into a bottle — the heat of a hundred year old yearning
and looking up at you,
a glass eye, staring blankly at the starless night.
All life is here, tonight, before the tide rises again,
sorts it in its slip streams and carries it away.
So what will we leave behind?
What will the river hold of us?
Plastic straw in sickly pink?
Bleached out crisp packet, cable tie?
All the junk and gubbins of our lives?
What will we throw to the water, as if it doesn’t remember?
As if it won’t show itself again, over and over
in hands that have not yet been born
Want more poetry in unexpected places?
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Our bridges
Our five bridges are symbols of London’s history and beacons for its future. Learn more about Tower Bridge, London Bridge, Southwark Bridge, Millennium Bridge and Blackfriars Bridge