Asha Howard-Birt

Clouds like sheets hanging on a washing line;
Billowing as the wind whispers secret messages to the trees.
The canal is a sapphire ribbon;
Racing from yesterday to today and over the brink of tomorrow.
Plastic bag swans gliding across;
Knives scraping the water.
Boats like ants, crawling across the surface;
Unaffected by the world around them.
The canal is a serpent, playing tag with the horizon.
Passers-by watch, enchanted by the beauty of its smooth blanket of indigo silk.