The Old Lock and Canal

There’s an old canal close by where I live, and an empty lock made of stones massive, traipsing around there, the place can amaze just seeing how the whole of it was made. There’s no mortar here, between these great stones, they align perfect, no a gap is shown; to do this with hand tools and draft oxen, not just one lock, but again and again… There are still hollow where great doors did swing, sealing the lock up to keep water in, holding it back without concrete of steel, and no great engines, just pullies and wheels. The canal itself, so humanely straight, by spyglass and spring they made it this way, with but shovel and pick to prove their own worth they dug a river across the damn Earth! Two centuries later it still remains, two hundred years on who would know my name? Sure, I write poems, but poems are talk, these men carved themselves in the very rock, the canal they built now sanctuary for birds, fishes, turtles swimming lazily, the towpath they built no a walking trail, where kids ride their bikes when weather is hale, seeing what grandfathers built back in time, what men do with hard work and focus of mind.