The river is in turmoil. The rains of the last week have been exceptional and the unsettled weather produced much drama. As we were driving home the world seemed shrouded in a mantle of white gauze. Quiet, frozen, still, as we arrived and parked. The woods were dark with much brown, some fiery colour starting at the tips, black shadows and a tracery of winter stems beginning to be revealed. The mood was for staying indoors and being quiet, catching up on life, preparing for winter. Very quickly, a patch of cloud became bright white light, the mist disappeared and, out of the window, the sky started to move fast, clouds sliding past clouds, white, grey, a speck of blue, all rushing east and being engulfed by a navy blue bank just peering over the eastern horizon. The wind has got up and the roiling waters of the river, I now see, are rearing up and climbing the meadow, overcoming the sheep grazing, as the weir gives up and dives below. I look at the woods and see the pasture now illuminated, the shadows of slow moving cattle, the whipping and slashing of the tops, the hidden underbough and undergrowth sparkling and moving here and there in the shadow. Shed a little light, blow a little wind over the suppressed, forgotten surface of life and the old secrets, the old memories, the old scars... If I wait, calm will descent once more.
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