![]() A new poem still under 'construction'. I have recently moved my lovely battered old boat 'Emeline' down to Cropredy on the Oxford Canal. I have dreamed for years about having a narrowboat and this dream is one of the lucky ones that when achieved is all that it is supposed to be. For my money there is no better way to see the wonderful arcane, mysterious place that is England than pottering along at the steady pace of BMC engine chuntering to itself. ![]() It was a Kingfisher morn, A low mist, the lingering breath of a summers night, Hung like a ragged eiderdown upon dark waters, Before evaporating at the new day’s calling Leaving the canal dappled in the shimmering light Falling through willow. As Emeline, steady and measured and awake Moved to the call of heavy horses whose flickering feathered remembrance lingered in the hedgerows And ducked under the swing bridge from field to cow A Kingfisher morn,
a dominion of sorts, Where the Capdockin and Flapperdock, the names of old England As much as the church on the hill and site of the mill, Stand rhubarb proud at the border, a raggle-taggle audience To the sublime. And in the sour green depths of the lock – whose out stretched arms Wait for the Fisher King, the luscious waters ooze That all may be healed and transported. These are halcyon days in the unreliable summer, of the Damsoiselle fly flitting in ultramarine for the fluttering of brief romance Dandling in the air amongst the white dog rose and the azure flax And fussy moorhens and scolding Mute Swans. When around us, the fields of Oxfordshire Unbound and close to paradise Rose expectant and ruddy Into a time of exuberant flourishing Flush with the joy of sunlight An anthem for the vanishing King.
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Psychologist
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