At Feather Tor
They climb down the lea of the hill.
No one walks here but us.
Above is a pitch of wind, unearthly. Water pours.
If a mist drops, can I navigate?
Keep the sound of the water to your right.
Out of the crooked gorse they walk, to a clear crossing, shallow, over flat stones.
'I find it!' Little Granddaughter says.
On the other side of the river she tires and takes a shoulder ride. Crow-birds hop. Sheep poo is pointed out, and the flights of linnets from a circling Dog. They are babies, she tells Nam-ma, whispers; 'tiny-baby-birds' regards their flight with indulgent pride.
|Not too cold for ice cream yet!|