Bluster transforms the landscape of canal. Ridges flattened, valleys carved. New shards of light rise and fall in an instant.
I listen to the lullaby of Little Venice. Water clapping the side of the cut. Boat wood creaking. Wind dumping street sounds into blackness. Instants are snatched from the constant Westway drone and dub. They skim across the surface before sinking with a hot stone hiss.
At times the canal seems to twist as if in fitful sleep. Dreaming of forgotten water gypsy ballads or the muffled, processional chug of dark lantern boats. Maybe it dreams of Lovecraftian amphibians that wake at night to pull leggers from their boats and into the cold ink of the Islington Tunnel. Shallow Ones who swim up the Regent to rock the boats of the
In the lost hours of slumber, the lost hours of stretch and turn, the cut owns itself. No longer just a route through the city or space to live on, it possesses purpose divorced from its users. Pushing east to kiss the