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On the Canal

This travelling feels like drifting; only the engine's
Muted roar to break the silence
Of these springtime woods;
Their unsuspected beauty caught
Between underpass and city where
Stark budding branches arch
to the azure sky.

We steer by numbered bridges, distance
Measured only by the passing hours, prow whispering
Through the still water from dawn to dusk:
The rising banks conceal us from the giddy world.
Shore bound fishermen raise sleepy navelgazes as we pass.

Now shadowed by the falling dusk, we moor:
shutting warm wooded panels studded with painted flowers,
chimneys lazily spilling smoke downriver whilst we
Drift sleepwards to the barge's gentle rocking,
Held outside time and tide.


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