At lock 212 there are arms, through which
The house from 1912
Is always seen. I sit on an arm
Of the canal, rocking myself slightly.
And I start a motion which, minutes later,
The blue hills having forgotten, the storm in
Nudges me to attention.
There is a blackbird here
With a motif, one hundred years old;
Here they have kept the grass
Trim, with delicately dropped straws.
In my twenties, my teens,
The hedges and fields
I had left naive:
Only now have I begun
The cold things of the house –
And she waits, in a kind of domestic bliss.
While I, having found,
I touch beauty in its purest form,
At this empty station of the canal.
I am keeping forward of the cill,
I am coming a long way back to
And a long way