Like The Slap Of A Wet Daffodil
Ancient ash: extending delicate, tender-stemmed leaflets towards me. I hold one gently between thumb and forefinger, feeling the slight ridge of life-giving vein and am reminded of our similarities; what we share. The trees sit with me in my creative impotence; silent companions in late summer’s weary pause.
Chapter V: Salmon Dykes – The River’s Tale Lutra lutra With Ardtannes mill behind me, I heave open the old wooden gate leading into the park ahead of the Salmon Dykes (ensuring I close it behind me). I have always loved this grassy park: arrived at through the gate from the mill as I hadContinue reading “The Running of the Marches Part I: Don Brig to the Salmon Dykes”
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