CANAL SONG

Today I saw mallards

fed crumbs by a local drunkard

stumbling from the Grapes

onto the murky cut.

He crooned a forgotten song

that floated on the wind

as narrow boats chugged past

a chalky towpath

old as ghosts of workers

mean-eyed, coal dust-coated

heaving sacks and urging horses

in days now deemed heroic.

It guided him home

under mossy humpbacked stone

round each bend

skirting the lonely fields

and the rapine housing projects.

 

Flights e-Journal 9, 2023, Editor Darren Beaney