The Canal

There was ice on the canal  
narrow boats moored  
going nowhere until next spring.  
Victoriana  fossilised, so safe.  
Telford's ghost and navvies sweat,  
four feet deep and muddy.  
The aquaduct who's name I cannot spell  
stretches bank to bank  
above the Dee a hundred feet or more.  
Come here in spring, be surprised,  
boats waiting either end  
to cross with eyes tight closed,  
an inch of iron is all he gave us,  
sitting on stone arches.