Mudlarking for the Occasionally Housebound by Naomi Madlock

Naomi Madlock's poem brings a disabled body to a riverbank, where nature's streams of unexpected ruins and treasures – 'a flap of algae', 'domestic waste', 'sunlight/seeping through a porcelain shard' – assemble a sense of wholeness and peace.

This piece was shortlisted for the 2025 Queen Mary Wasafiri New Writing Prize.

             There is a softly-spoken feud 
between water course and refuse.
             I choose to stand 
                          alone in no-man’s-land 

because on the pittance of days 
              when I can walk, I will walk
where others cannot.  

Buoyant           in my rainbow wellies 
                         and fisherman’s coat, 
I punt my body             along the bank
             with a makeshift walking stick.  

You see, mud 
             washes away the taboo
             of stumbling.
I consent to being stared at
            by dogwalkers and joggers
whilst I list and lilt  
                       between the slopes. 

I was not built for high street errands. 

I’d rather be ankle-deep in leeches 
            down a city glen, glazing
                         my hands green. 

The pharmacy can keep my drugs 
             a little longer. 

I’m better off panning for brass
            buttons, pins, thimbles, the glint
            of signet ring or ring pull,
the broken hearts      of teacup handles. 

In this viscous asylum,  
            this borrowed bed, 
I can treasure the domestic waste 
            of elsewhere, elsewhen;
                                      the novelty of litter 
            not of my own making.  

They say glass is ‘sick’ when it turns
            iridescent.        I am iridescent. I am  

            the scalloped edge of the past, 
            the cobalt blue amid the mire,
            the sunlight
seeping through a porcelain shard. 

I am a faceless monarch, slipware 
            sgraffitoed by the current, a pillbox
                        filled with gravel. In time, 

all things discarded or mislaid
are found by the river.  

            And there are few who can be 
captivated        by a bottle stopper, 
              an Edwardian jam jar, a buckle,
              a flap of algae  
                          draped over a twig. 

              Strange beings thrive in this niche. 

A bullhead is content 
           under its eternal rock.
The caddisfly larvae flaunt 
            their technicolour cloaks of debris. 

And here I am,
            defying the thigh strain
            and clockwork head rush. 

Here I am, Frankenstein  
           with golden lacquer, disinterring 
willow pattern scenes to reassemble. 

Here I am, bringing myself to ruin 
           to hold what is broken. 

The 2026 Queen Mary Wasafiri New Writing Prize is open for entries until 30 June 2026.

Cover image: Forest Stream by Ivan Shishkin