Into the Glen it’s cool and grey, the grass green from all the rain. Someone has turned the Poplar stump into a cauldron by adding a stirrer. Empty, it seems to beckon to the water – so near and yet so far. There, could be a few rounds of spell churning here and a little witches’ chant for good measure.
Further along I see the celendines are coming up in the watery glade where the hemlock grows, it’s good to see their starry yellow faces in the blanket coat of green. The pooled water under the willow quivers with life and an uneven rhythm, so I can’t tell if it’s from the light breeze, or something beneath the surface, or just in response to me looking at it.
There are puddles and tyre tracks where the council have been moving gravel and filling holes. Sadly there is also plenty of broken vegetation too, which has me cursing them for using this bulky machinery in the Glen, its trail is so brutal. The trail of devastation doesn’t inspire much confidence in the stewardship of the council.
At the back of the hatch The navelwort is creeping out from the cracks in the sandstone while the catkins on the alder just dangle like Little Bo Beep’s sheeps’ tails. I stand on my little podium and notice the waters have receded from the alders and again I can’t resist the pull for a little belly contact with the cement over the grill, a few calm seconds of hearing the rush and watching the water glide under me.
I mooch along the path to take a peek at the pencil factory, there is no new sacrifice dropped here today, I’m relieved. The Christmas spruce (fir?) is browning in some batches and not at all in others. I round up over the top, past the budleias, the cat’s eye with its butterfly, taking the high path through the gorse and down into the gothic zone where I rinse my boots in the spring by the well, watched over by this year’s Brigid’s cross and amble home.
must check this next time: