As the narrow-boat’s snout tickled the under-bridge,
Black-Jack cut the engine and peered through the white gloom…
A landing-official waved his stray arm in greeting, the lights beyond him intimated warmth and festivity.
An Owl screeched!
Black-Jack turned to see a huge moon crest the tree-line: he re-engaged the engine, pointed the craft and leaped onto the tow-path.
The barge, its cargo of Alpine-Fur and Lebanese-Spice secure, slid off, a long-snail on its trail…
The official ran towards the way-ward craft, hollering…
Instead of Black-Jack?
A plume of Blue-Smoke hung,
like a scar across the face of the moon.