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
Cecilia Knapp, our poet-in-residence, found inspiration for this poem through the mudlarkers who scour the Thames foreshore, searching for historical objects that have been lost or abandoned to the river.
Night lark, low tide
Our charity’s roots date back more than 900 years, throughout which our main purpose has been to bridge the River Thames. Over those nine centuries the river has grown in importance until, in the 19th century, London was the busiest port in the world.
The wharves are quiet now, but the foreshore below remains a repository of all that has been dropped or discarded into the river, from precious coins to plastic straws.
Cecilia sought inspiration for this poem by meeting up with two licenced mudlarkers, Helen Stack and Lisa Osborne, who shared some of their fascinating finds in a Brick Lane coffee shop.
Our thanks to The Poetry Society, with whom we are partnering on this project.
Filming by Alexander Nicolaou.
Read Cecilia’s 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.
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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