Another gap, plenty of water under the bridge. flowing flowing
Back to the Glen
I stand over the river facing the disappearing waters as they flow under me away from me
this is the direction for the turning of the year, watching the waters wash westwards the low sun rising at my back we are attuned to the same direction, the tilt and spin and rounding of the year. There is a red embering through the mossy wickers, the deep breast of a robin, who alights in the branches at the riverside, I have barely moved in a timeless length from this standing, we whisper to one another our breaths disappearing outwards into the air about us as the water flows on and on.
Later I see a strange thing near the Willow a slant and bald presence in the boggy wetland and something shaggy beside it I can’t quite make out… oh ’tis a fox , a cub in a silent trajectory tail and snout in one sleek line, breathless, motionless, stilled.
The pool by the Alder spirals, gathers rain drops dials in and spins out on course liquid light fluid motion