Michael Eyre
Beneath the spread of urban sprawl,
a world of water lies concealed.
Predating railways, dug by hand,
it threads through mill towns, grassy fields.
Round each bend, whispering echoes
of steam engines, blast furnace glow,
painted boats, their coal piled high,
drawn by Welsh Cobs in slow-moving tow.
Now there are more boats than ever;
the smoking chimneys have all gone.
They spend their days drifting along,
a corridor alive with birdsong.
The scenery moves slowly,
past hedgerows of dog-rose and thorn,
regiments of terraced houses,
a clattering train’s warning horn.
An angler watches, envious,
as a blue kingfisher swoops to feed.
A family gathers blackberries,
as swans serenely nibble weed.
A boat lies moored by an empty lock,
beside the rushing overspill.
Click, click of a winding windlass,
as tumbling waters rise to fill.
A yapping dog gives chase to ducks
who quack and squabble over bread.
The ping-ping of a cyclist’s bell,
a runner’s face all flushed and red.
Blue sky reflects in still water,
the image, mirror-like, rebounds.
A slow-paced, tranquil idyll,
a symphony of sights and sounds.