Greta  

Greta  
 /ˈgrɪːtə/ 
 
The first Greta is a river 
she is Griótá, the stony stream 
birthed where St John and Glenderamackin 
conflow in their ancient beds. 
 
The second Greta is a river 
she is Griótá, the stony stream 
rising in the Pennines and feeding the Tees 
thickets deep and darksome bed. 
 
The third Greta is a river 
she is Griótá, the stony stream 
between Twiss and Doe, slung to the Lune 
lashed to the Irish Sea. 
 
The fourth Greta is a township 
she is a myth’s beating heart, red- 
bricked shack with rusted wheels in the outback 
where Ellen gave to the world. 
 
The fifth Greta is my father’s 
mother, great and wide of laughter 
gone to the world but for my father’s eyes 
and mine: each year more hers. 
 
The sixth Greta is an oxbow lake 
she is forgotten water, a question mark 
half-formed and losing herself to the endless air 
as the river flows by. 
 
The seventh Greta is Ellie 
my daughter, she is the gate-keeper 
and physical work of being alive, lock-keeper 
in turn, of every level.