Canal At Dogmersfield July 2019 Poem by Jean Bernard Parr

the willow is a cataract
silent and still, no time for clocks
the canal is full and has drunk
its fill of school chatter raindrops

the dangled and languid fingers of green
as if ordered by some ancient protocol,
stop short of fondling the water;
this makes a dark band, a dark aurora,
its denizens a maddening of flies,
and below
waiting for the moment,
a silver muscle of fish

I walk on the flinty towpath
over there, a flotilla of
going-nowhere twigs
nothing moves in the canal
nothing moves unless something pushes it
just like electricity you see!

and here is me, not here for long
the boy from the city
in my bookcase unopened
a little book on herbs
a present long ago undeserved
and, in meaning to do this and that
made time instead for irregular verbs
and rubbish TV

the canal is going at the same pace
as the galaxy and right on cue
lillypads come into view, their
straining buds urgent with new born stars
that will be for tomorrow

and there is no guessing then
where, nuzzled by a caprice of wind
the little raft of twigs will be
and again the rain, come to smack
the broad docks, rain,
summer sweet and no time now for clocks