we float upon
abandon canal,
listening
for the water slap
of the occasional carp.

where kingbirds
dart and feed
from mid-hanging branches.
the tow path
now an over grown trail that
deer and coyote ignore.
the clock tick of wave against the hull.

history bending for little;
the keeping and talking
of things ceasing here
in unbelievable
finely scored near silence.

osprey cry and fall
cutting the silence
at the canal's surface
leaving with a fish,
leaving water rippled,
leaving feather.

and it will be all day
the hum and attack
of insect fly by, and
we'll only speak to navigate,
settling into an uneven pattern
with paddle.

it's another life
to be floating.
a ***** yellow
canoe the method
by which we ignore
the dense differences
between air and water,
and awaken to
the quiet moments
full to the clues
of the immense life
that dwells in
small places.

You've seen the eel twice now
I saw it once on
Our weekend walk and
I have to say, it was genuinely thrilling

Mysterious and often overlooked
Perhaps lost in the
Ornamental canal
Some distance from the river now

Sharing water with ducks, swans, a small
Fish family, the lonely heron
And those crab carcasses which are
A mystery unto themselves

The clouds chasing grey

and fierce, over the canal --


a flock of starlings.

Passing Through

We are like two sailing ships
Passing through a narrow canal

Veteran captains standing  on our decks
We nod heads to each other

In acknowledgement as if to say
Congratulations on a job well done

The sails of our boats once taut now sag
A sign of the relics we have become

In our hey day
We were the top of our class

The envy of the fleet
Known for speed and cunningness

The scourge of the open seas
Few willing to take us on in a battle of the minds

Feared in competition
Avoided where possible

But alas like all things in life
There is decline and decay awaiting us

When you know the time has come
For navigating into the sunset for safe harbor

All that is left is to idle away time
Sitting on the sandy shore until...

Andreas Simic©

Taking my dog to the canal
Its tea coloured peace
Resting behind the town
He noses in nettles
Relieves himself on bluebells
As I eye the bridge's span

Towards its apex
Crushed beneath the roadway
A sapling reaches out
I look closer
Its lignified limb squashed flat
Emerging arthritic
Unfurling green fingers
In a  hopeful
Reaching last

I comprehend the wall
Council funded murals
Darter dragonfly, pipistrelle bat
King fisher
Washed over stone
Pale compensation
For nature entombed

Twisted complex feelings
swings to grandfather’s hometown canal, 
where the heated late summer sunlight burned off 
traditional peace and a quiet Canal Zone. 

Returning scholar
his granddaughter’s blood at his side,
imagine now the men who once amassed
the limestone locks to straddle the canal,
an obsolete image from 
an eldritch past.

Give the knots that line my spine
The milky film that clots my eyes
The pride that grips my jaw
To be suspended

Hair blown out in rat-tail haloes
By soft ochre dispersions
To bob, a boat returned
Plunged into the myth of algae
Nymphs that bring dimension to the depths

To be an oil spill clearing canvas
A gliding watercolor rag or
Submerged irradiant water hag
Concealed by a cocoon

The overhang where beads of light
Exaggerate the urban dream
Freed from the stingy binds of gravity
The filthy nihilistic scene above

Just on display way down there
Beneath the ziplocked airless sky
For passers-by to glimpse the paradox
This wilful tragedy of mine

Through a waterlogged trachea
Umbilical cord to godliness stretched
Returned to me mangled and sore
Drowned in the canal of Little Venice.