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.
Wood Bee Poet 