Grand Union

On my stretch of a midlands canal,
From the bridge at the bend,
Just before the end of the lane,

I've heard a woodpecker,
Seen herons in flight
And pondered the fate of a giant pike
That every year, I hear
Eats heron chicks.

A man on a bike,
The one who lives opposite,
Told me about a future event.
A fishing tournament in the spring,
Just to net that bloody pike.
But I wasn't sure what he meant,
And he didn't say
What the prize would be.

Onetime, from the bridge,
I saw a thoughtful heron.
Its neck straining
From the hedge, bordering the towpath.
Cast out towards the still gloom of water,
Looking like a small dinosaur.
Perhaps figuring how to outwit
Murderous fish lurking beneath.

My prize would be, catching sight of
A kingfisher there's rumoured to be.
Thinks itself safe, may be oblivious,
To the discarded traffic cone,
Half number plate and drowned dog.

But not the passage of locals, fishermen and kids
With at least one responsible adult in tow,
Traipsing down the lane to see what's worth looking at.

Canals allow glimpses
Of bygone beauty mostly obscured.
Receive post-industrial filth,
But harbour vestiges of a habitat.
And seem to balance the two.