The Lady Gail
Walking along the footway,
A path carried over a ridge,
Looking down at the old waterway,
From high, on top of the bridge.
Spying the weathered old barge,
Tethered to stakes at the edge,
The ropes twisted and tight,
Between the reeds and the sedge.
Thin metal chimney poked through the roof,
Emitting a steady smoke plume,
From the stove near the stern,
The thin galley, a shortage of room.
With fine, faded old artwork,
The reds, the greens and the blues,
Artful, intricate pictures,
Golds, yellows, several hues.
This girl had been beautiful once,
Though her paint had turned pale.
Now low, and snug in the water,
An old vessel, “The Lady Gail”.
Well-travelled, an itinerant,
Good body, mellowed face,
Wandering the waterways,
Moving on from place to place.
For days she moored there quietly,
Majestic, as if lying in state,
Resting her bones in the water,
Waiting, down near the lock-gate.
Then one day, towpath all covered in ice,
A space by the bank newly appeared:
The Lady Gail had slipped her mooring,
Just as I’d expected and feared.
No sign of her in either direction,
Her stay with us turned into history.
The cold water sadly deserted,
Her next destination a mystery.
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