To see him Majestically ‘Crown’ the Tennent Canal
with ruffled, ragged white and grey plumage.
Neath Abbey Ruins half-silhouetting his backdrop,
the grumpy old Grandfather
of these Welsh inland Valley waterways.
Grave silent and statue still,
yet, observing all directions always
… the lamenting bulrushes his stalking ground
as he pines and worries himself slender,
slowly through the reed beds,
looking for something years ago lost…
reminiscing mournfully and fighting off
the inevitable approaching Winter.
But, constantly deep in thought and wise I feel,
wise enough to keep his wisdom safe and sound
and let the hooting owls take all the credit.
Until an Explosion of children’s voices
comes breeze-scampering from just up ahead
… and he lurches off in silently powerful,
rhythmical wing beats… like a glorious
Watercolour [Momentarily] dripping itself into ‘Life’.