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
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