Tracks

Yesterday's foray into the sunny byroads of Co. Westmeath , was partly motivated by a search for a lost relic of the Royal Canal. A few years ago, I caught a fleeting glimpse of something that I found surreal and somehow sad. Stranded in the middle of a grassy field was the unmistakable black and white form of an old canal lock gate. Not discarded , but in place, leveling now not the green waters of the canal , but the soil and rock of a midlands meadow.

The image of that lock gate has fascinated me for years. Whatever accident of geography or failed navigation that had taken me past it was neither recorded nor repeated. Still I remembered its proud stillness. Marveled at how its identity of stone and oak, of leaded paint had withstood the indignity of its abandonment, the filling in of a siding no longer relevant, needed or loved.

In an odd way, the lock's land locking seemed to convey a greater sense of movement than one rushing with water. Or should I say, its sturdy limbs seemed to convey a sense of strength and potential like a runner trapped in sand. It was as if its trapped form longed to push its way through the field. Thirsty for green waters and , to quote Kavanagh once more, leafy-love-banks.

I drove and wove my way through country lanes but sadly did not find my lock gate. So perhaps it had finally surrendered to the plough, or found its timbers rendered and shaped to other purposes. Or maybe, in its quiet patient pushing had finally reached the rushing release of green waters.

I did however, find another abandoned relic of the Royal Canal , whose prison shadowed banks Behan sang of. I stood a little while and thought of those who laid this path, so certain of their course.

Canal Bank Walk
Patrick Kavanagh

Leafy-with-love banks and the green waters of the canal Pouring redemption for me, that I do The will of God, wallow in the habitual, the banal, Grow with nature again as before I grew. The bright stick trapped, the breeze adding a third Party to the couple kissing on an old seat, And a bird gathering materials for the nest for the Word Eloquently new and abandoned to its delirious beat. O unworn world enrapture me, encapture me in a web Of fabulous grass and eternal voices by a beech, Feed the gaping need of my senses, give me ad lib To pray unselfconsciously with overflowing speech For this soul needs to be honoured with a new dress woven From green and blue things and arguments that cannot be proven.