There are cats on the canal bank in the dark. A long low shape trots along the towpath, another slinks onto the deck of a narrow boat. By the time the light comes they are gone, but the blossom is here, white bursts on the opposite bank, a handful of scattered petals pale on the murky water. I walk down, away from the weir, to where there is a muddy meadow. The early sky is tinged orange and I turn towards it. There are contrails marking a cross in the newly blue sky and I walk to the edge of the lake.
There is a sodden bench on the edge and it stands as a sharp silhouette against the coloured sky. There is rubbish here too, there always is - a crisp packet, a can of monster energy drink, a disposable barbecue. I put what I can in my pockets and turn my back to the bench, to look out at the water. It is still, but when I peer into it I can’t see the bottom, though I know it is only shallow here, at the edge. But the burning ball of the sun is climbing and the water ripples peach and yellow, the electricity pylons reflected upside down like graceful acrobats.
I turn back onto the path. A magpie wings overhead, it’s tail tipped low, as if it is a weight to carry. There has been more rubbish dumping since I was last here, and there are huge amounts - a tarpaulin, a wardrobe with its doors spray painted with graffiti. The mud is tacky underfoot and the puddles, in places, take over the whole path. The stones embedded in the mud are big, my thin soled boots no protection.
Then, in a gap between boats, I see something. A cormorant, black feathers close enough to show the brown, head dipped down to the water where its beak clutches a silver head. The fish is fat, long, glistening but still half in the water. The bird scrabbles with it, working its beak, adjusting its grip. Then, it dips below the water, head and beak both gone, and I think it has lost it. Then, with a sudden straightening of the neck, it flips the fish up, vertical in the sky, long silver body shining, flicked straight, and it is gone. It slides through the open beak, down the gullet. I swear I see the bird’s neck widen as its breakfast passes. It is the work of a moment, a flick, a swallow, and the fish is gone. The cormorant shakes his head, turns away, and carries on swimming.