Joan Miró’s downstairs cupboard

On a walk in my big technicolour runners I listened to songs about canals. I stumbled on grainy footage of Jim Reeves with his guitar strap taut and his black pomade shining, shoulders shrugging lightly with every strum, he sings -

Railroad, steamboat, river and canal
Yonder comes a sucker, and he’s got my gal!

Whistling along to the tragic demise of Jim’s love life and the flaunting of it in his face upon various modes of industrial maritime channels, I took photos of curious iron structures poised menacingly against the blue evening sky.

A rustred crucifix with ballooning planets in orbit - a trigonometric function, one equilateral, another acute - wrought iron, burst butterfly net, broken from the force of a flutter - a coat hanger from Joan Miró’s downstairs cupboard, a herring gull surveys the potential for a discarded bread roll - a feathered quill scribbling into the mirth, brown ink pouring downstream - a gull, perhaps yellow-legged, too hard to tell, rests on a stationary disc waiting to spin.

Sing it again, Jim.