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 . . . . .