Canalside

Along the canal,

dragonflies land on lily pads,

a woman in a large straw hat

languidly lolls on the deck of a barge.

Birds with gold backs

swoop from frail branches

which reach from banks

that bulge with bullrushes.

The back of my right ankle

turned at right angles over

stone paved paths.

Sun in great, gold strips;

shadows are something

like relief.

Water reflects the greens

that glow in trees.

But I can hear the crackle

of the cars on dry tarmac.