Canal

On quiet mornings when the mist clings
to the water’s glassy skin,
the canal sighs beneath a low‑sky,
a silver thread through town and field.

Narrowboats drift, their paint a faded hue,
reds and blues that time has kissed,
while the old labour of lock‑gates turns,
each rise and fall a measured breath.

Towpaths whisper with the tread of cyclists,
the soft rustle of reeds, the distant call
of a kingfisher flashing like a sapphire spark.

Evening draws a curtain of amber light,
reflecting on the steady flow,
and the waterway, patient and unhurried,
carries stories – of trade, of leisure,
of dreams that float upon its calm,
a ribbon of continuity in the ever‑changing landscape.