Canal Walk

We walk past beech trees.
Their branches,
tributaries into the sky,
catch the light,
and funnel it down
through elephant-hide bark,
and the tow-path is black-shiny beneath us
with a mulch of their spent leaves
and nut husk.

Stopping to rest
we notice a coot
paddling softly
in dark-soaked water,
and through a hole in a wall
we peer into a dusk-filled garden,
where a rabbit sits, still.

Back in the guest house,
which has sketches of sheep,
the clocks are frozen in time
at the point that we stopped them
to savour the silence.

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