Lancaster Canal

along the toll path, worn by footfall, I walk as a water colourist tracing the canal's hidden track, hewn blocks are daubed, washed by mildew green silver weals etched like faded liver spots on its pock marked granite face. The shore's serrated edges leach into reed beds when a heron on stilts swivels in still-life freezes stranded where he brushes elbowing bullrushes bleeding corn-yellow rustlings with stone grey-blue ripples straw stiff legs poke through marshiness bubbling micro bubbles splattering in varnished water poses in profile taking a selfie on the lake's mirrored lens piercing light with inked beak I dismember my easel's gauky frame flinging over stiff shoulder straps bending sharp wooden joints as the heron cranks its kite like wings pummeling the air with its tints of blue cutting the sky like a pallete knife