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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