Canal Run

the broken ice on the puddles
glints like glass in the sun
the air on my cheeks
feels like shards of the same
thump, thump, swish, swish
besides a faint roar from the M6
the only sounds are pounding feet
with my windbreaker excepting
surprised squawks from ducks
a feather balances bereft of its swan
on a thin sheen of ice
the canal sits still as the air
occasional smoke drifts casually up
from the inhabited boats
the sun is low in the sky
as if welcoming evening rather than noon
beyond lie green fields, pastures
a horse grazing peacefully
I breathe deeply the English winter