A Vendre

We pause to watch the supping fingerlings
break the glass of the bottle green water,
perfect circles, brief, before fading.
A family of swallows are also feeding on the dapping fly
and make their own dinner plate ripples
as they wheel and dive between us.
Then there it is, canalside.
A Vendre, almost a ruin,
a peeling painted sign for wine
half on the ancient splintered shutter
and half the crumbling rendered wall.
We both look, our thoughts colliding silently,
the steps from the panelled verandah,
a perfect jetty, the porch,
the curve of the canal and willows on the bend.
We could sell beer and wines
and wave to bargees with a knowing smile.
How much I wonder, you say?
And much, more to put it right.
Eventually we idle away,
our fleeting new life dream
fades around the bend
leaving swallows to their chaotic repas.

© Graham Sherwood 09/2012