Lock

From The Round Journey

A final march down the towpath,

Mount the verge with dew lit shoes

And lean into the abyss of the lock,

The sluice gates are shuttered and

the chamber fills once more,

With holidays, sleepless pillowy hours of susurration,

Wedding vowels, babies and rebirth days,

Sealed tight and safe, unshared

The memories pour in, churning up,

The water opaques the dates and years

muddies chronology that

passively floats, moulding

yielding, slipping away

The windlass drops in its slot,

The gates are cranked, aching open

And all that was you floods away,

Becomes particles in a wider water system,

Diluted in times weary basin

Drifts, aimless, onwards