This time of year, canalside nights swell with dreams of dark lantern craft heading east. The sly wheeze of engines carving the black mirror, carving the night towards Limehouse. Towards the
as if it were some spawning ground for narrowboats.
An urge to follow itches into waking. The need for a fluid pilgrimage. Our lady of the waters. Copper, orange and honey offered. Time to sweat locks.