Wot Bron Thunk and what the stream meant to her in the long run... A photo to accompany https://www.instagram.com/p/CHOUsoGn7nN/?igshid=y6qfnyqhdfwr
..and Bron was thinking to herself — ..and that wall too. One of the stone walls - the dry stone walls - around and about, all about, across the landscape and furthermore in the vicinity always nearby. But this wall was in that sunny spot by the silvery barked tree, an ash tree, quite near the chapel. It felt historical, old, and had seen a lot of time passed. Anyway this wall, that was made mostly from limestone of the nearby pavement outcrops, was grey with light grey lichen and yellow lichens. It was that bit in the sun with the hole next to the large slightly more elaborate pink sandstone post with the mason’s markings. She rubbed her forehead and pinched her nose then held her head between her hands and gently squeezed and rubbed her eyes and cheeks in an effort to clean off the cobwebs. She continued to picture the wall - that hole that had some old pieces of wood, some bird feathers and dust. The deep blue shadows in there. There was a sense of the past about that place. Ragged sheep stood nearby and their wool hung from the barbed wire fence. There were several rooks near that chapel chattering and caawing. I’d put my hand in that wall and then I’d found it. The tin box - an old tobacco tin. Prying open the rusty lid I’d found the few coins and the folded paper gone yellow and brown with age. Later I’d read the paper with the fading ink writing. Beautiful neat handwriting. It said... something about potatoes, herring, beer... it was a list, a shopping List for market day. She raised her head coming back from the memory into the present and moved away across the field towards the river where a line of bushes and alders followed the bank. She stepped across some mossy boulders and granite stones smooth from the water, to the river’s edge. Pools stood among the stones. The river ran quite swiftly, less than a foot deep in this part, the stream undulated following the curves of the bed, mainly shiny slick stones covered in a black and dark green weed, with patches of pebbles. Bron removed her shoes and socks tossing them onto the bank and waded out between some bright yellow flowers growing between the stones. The dark smell of the rushing water and the musky smell from the flowers made her head swim slightly as she stood with her bare feet feeling the slippery stones all slick and soft like wet velvet. She gazed down mesmerised by the flow around her calves and the icy cold of her reddening feet and ankles, bits of twig and dried grass stalks flew past her and the water reflected back her own dark shadowy self backed by the cloudy sky behind with the large expanses of blue between the ripped clouds, the leaves and branches of the alder its twirly brown tails hanging down, some dropping to join the other flotsam, then to be tugged away downstream. Ta very much S Sent from my spyphone
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