Locking down towards the sun
Catkins, backlit, are draped as a pelmet above the path.
The brilliant white light of the sun’s reflection erupts from the dark pound waters which are cracked apart by parallel flashes of the ripples.
The winter brown of the woods is edged by the verdant green tow path edge and the sun fights a battle with the afternoon shadows made by the leafless trees.
Crunching footsteps of walkers are accompanied by the constant gush of whitened water leaking from the gates.
Against this background can be heard the first singing of a robin, staking his claim on the territory. And then the rattle of steel against steel, followed by familiar but unwelcome clanking as the paddles are raised. The gush is itself drowned by the torrent of white water, seemingly steaming and hissing in its haste to fill the lock. Once the lock has filled peace returns. The final eddies chase each other on the lock surface. The gates, with their darkened wet wood and bright white beam heave a sign of relief and begin to swing of their own volition.
And yes peace returns to this place where man has trod, not too heavy, on nature to bend it to his will. And oh that I could sing as that robin, not in conflict, but in thanks to all creation’s Creator.