a drainage ditch by any other name . . .

I wish that there was, but there really isn’t a poetic alternative to drainage ditch, e.g. a silver galleon on a stormed tossed sea = the full moon and clouds, fiery orb = midday sun or ebon slate = starless sky.  No matter.

On my ride home today, the temporary traffic lights and single file diversion signifying roadworks had been dismantled.  As I cycled past, I saw that forty feet of drainage ditch had been lined with cement.  Unable to resist a blank canvas, I turned around and made an inscription in the perfectly gessoed surface.  In a couple of days, when the cement has dried and the sandbags are removed, water will flow over these words  .  .  .  .  always .  .  .  .  .  and the rivulets, streams and rivers, brooklets, rills and leats will whisper and wonder and carry these words to the sea .  .  .  .  forevermore  .  .  .  .  .



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