surveyor

A moorhen dipped beneath the canal’s surface,
Pat-a-cake feet spiralled through verdigris lace.

He wished his mind worked that way, like a clear
Glass to the depths, machinations on display.

It didn’t. His mind was more like the mountains he
Surveyed. The peaks were glistening adverts for the self;

But the valleys were occult, beyond the camera’s
Eye, nefarious or kindly, you could never tell.

Mapping them didn’t help. Marks denoted peaks, zones
Of demarcation, seemingly efficient, but,

In between those marks, white masked the evasive
Valley floor. Transparency a childish dream.

He knew these things. He wasn’t a surveyor for nowt.
The moorhen burst back through the line. It did so cleanly

As though the line
Does not exist.