Canzone to an Underground Flow by Jane Burn There is a river underfoot. The road bearsabove it, thickly set. Every while, a squareof red-iron drain, skidded worn – pinned below spinsof tready-rubber, spin wheel repetitions.Blinkered to the water’s secret flow, they lietheir metal eyes, choosing the upwards pale sky,its woeful dull of weary, stagnant dusk drawnand definite. Veiled by the small-town, yawning, slow-sleeped settle, she is loud, the tingled Pont – hums despite the gravelled, tarry skin. She hauntsthe dredge of evening, sing-song telling of flow,unchecked. How large the cavern? Echoes – I know by sense the unmeasured space. I check for cracks in such manufactured crust. Trusting its back, buses, cars, bikes drive unconscious of the springthat worries, cold and winnow-fresh. Untamed thing – one flooded flash, gorge of storm, one glutted melttoo much and she will rise, fury formed and feltfor the years of narrowed confine. Liquid spinearched to the nearness of freedom, she streamlines,veins groping for weakness, for chinks, for ways out.The walls of Watling Street are sure of their grout,roof slates certain of their placement on the beams.The bungalows make plumply silent globes, steam from coal-fired chimneys, tableau of dark innardsunshaken, supper-scenes as normal. In yardswhere lurchers curl in kennels and spool their bones,shadows lean from doorways, tilt shapes of gravestoneacross each mean patch. Rain starts its mizzling, dampon my cheeks, weighs the light from the line of lamps.The pavement becomes a mysterious place – a pathway of spooks, leading me on. A traceof my feet, a moment then gone – I exist for the time it takes to dissolve. My lips, kissedby tastes of absorbed smoke, soil, are filthy-slicked – the dark has turned the roads to oil. All is licked by subtle tongues – the moon sheens, the greedy swellsoaks the surplus wet and grows. How is she held?Travel forced to just one track, she bides – has worn her route through endless chafing. Meniscus tornon rough rock she forms, reforms – has contemplated cheap lives, wasted to television, satedin dwellings sat so smug above. When she chooses,she will bring the buildings down – shudder, loosen,burst the surface, spill radiant snow, geyserthe wreck. While we might run screaming, stand or freezeas if we just saw angels in the waves, drown,face-upward, written with peace or scrawled with frowns, liquid lung-full, she will shudder away lasttraces of her imprisoned hell. Floating past,bloated vermin shimmering next-day’s sunnyreflections as they float the deluge, honeyedlike ships made from leaves. A panicked whinny racesthe sullen distance. All we owned, every placewe lived lies doused and dull, deep and lost. Filthyhuman waste, fatted froth is put to new tilth – one of ripple not blade. A moorhen gives ventto joy for this new land. The dead sleep, contentfor they know no more of handbags, clocks or bread.Our bodies cease fighting. Undulate instead. Note: this poem is dedicated to the river Pont, Leadgate. A section of the river runs underneath the ex-mining village near Consett, County Durham and can be heard as you walk above. The photograph is of Watling Bungalows, Leadgate.