Irwell

I was caught out one monday afternoon. Caught out in a fevourish downpour, walking the streets. I crossed over into Salford, over the normally sedate Irwell - now a fast flowing swell. Cold and soaking wet I sat in the bay window of the Mark Addy, overhanging the river waters, rising just below. The Irwell was swollen, moving along with a renewed power. Quickening, as if alive. But just barely alive. The contaminated waters, with centuries old pollutants, carried along fresh debris - branches, pallets, plastics, deadwood anything that could be coughed up or thrown in. This flow of filth was strangely hypnotic, less and less a river, more and more a history dirge. The city had turned its back on the Irwell. And in moments like this it demanded its recompense. The murky water splashing and thrashing against its brick-laid banks, sounding out threats to the new glass buildings above. Threats, but only threats. This river subdued, poisoned, barely alive.