The river is lower than I've ever seen it. A stretch
of unexplored stone and tree root lands in my lap like free tickets. I'm gone
before I've realized I'm going to go. I see tadpoles and shout about it. I see
the river fall deep from the mud and stone shore. There's a world down
there. I'm almost struck to stone by it, till the breeze and
the shake of a wet dog break that spell. Sun light falls on a length of old
chain. It takes my historical fancy. I pull myself up the bank of nettles under
the barbed wire, declaring: 'a piece of the chain bridge,' before admitting:
'in my mind, at least.'
It does have that look about it. Mr admires it and we
leave it in situ, for it belongs there and some things need leaving be.
There are more tadpoles in the stream.
'The ones in the river must have washed down,' Mr
observes.
'They're thriving,' I decide. There's not a nettle
sting on me. Under the trees we walk, and the birds sing loud.
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