The canal bridge arched away from us;
it would’ve frowned if it weren’t spring.
I saw the picture as it could be,
a canvas, framed by blank walls.
The brambles underneath us
were lost in my viewfinder.
The paintbrush spat water in the wind,
skimmed my edges beside you.
Grass fingered my bare arms
yours, covered, shook off the breeze.
Dandelion heads shot white trains;
fell when the air did.
The shadowed water was grey,
green under the hedgerows
but brown by us in honest light.
Birds brought words to you from childhood,
urban Moorhens that ignored my lens
and picked at land for their miniatures.
We stood and the grass copied us,
stretched itself from our impressions.
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