The Canal Knows

-


I walked from the car.  
I was fly-tipping the 
Contents of my head 
Onto the towpath.
And then I decided 
To listen to the whispering 
Traffic from the flyover.
Dissonant notes and
Drifting motes.
Fermata
In the heat-haze.
I joined the dots for a while. 

As I walked beside 
The stillness, I traced 
A liquorice line, 
Trickling through the veins 
Of the city. 
A prickling cloud
Of midges
Trembled in the
Tension of cracked 
Wing mirrors.

The manspread of pylons 
Played snakes and ladders 
With the long grass,
Their power-stance loomed 
over scrapyards. 
I followed a fading 
Hopscotch path
That led me through 
Stagnant pools 
In sad factories,
The skeletons of warehouses 
And rows of drunken locks.

A clearing in the bushes
Revealed an aviary 
Of cans and bottles.
A meth nest, 
Best left alone.
The owner, A bird-man 
With laminated eyes
Was screaming at the sky,
‘They're frying up 
The sea life centre.’

I slipped away
Through weeds yielding 
To the mid-day breeze.
Secret machines were
Sleeping by the disused 
Railway track,
Deluded in their dreams
Of reactivation.

A pair of geese eyed me
Warily. They were guarding
Their little pool, 
Celebrating
Their union in oil slicked
Water. I held up my camera.
They hissed and chased me off.

Before me stood a signal box, 
Pebbledashed with pigeon shit.
A serrated transition
Down a twisted copper wire. 
A broadcast to the 
Corpses of 
Corroded car bodies. 
I heard the music in 
The echoes of the basin,
Caressing curving concrete
Spaghetti intertwined.
The tunnel whispered:

Have I seen you here before?
  





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