Frisby Mill Lock

There're worse places to be, you can be sure, that there are          
In some parallel existence, that's neither juxtaposed, or afar          
But here, elsewhere doesn't matter, when you're taking stock          
As the waters, cascade through, the disused, Frisby Mill lock  
   
There are better places to be, probably, but they are not here  
Stood at ease, upon this bridge, above the cacophonous weir  
Its feeder river is obvious and gentle, the meandering Wreake  
But here, this man-made tributary, likes to play, hide and seek