Soon the rhythm of row, row, row the boat, becomes automatic. I am relaxed. It’s after dinner and I have wine in my veins. I concentrate on the way the blade of each oar cuts into the surface. I want to make as little impact  – slice cleanly then draw against that chill thickness that provides my propulsion. I watch the regular whirlpools left in my trail. When the oars are lifted, they leave a line of droplets that make a continuous Celtic braid.1508053_10203130077426647_367531192136069301_n

The proximity of water. The sound of water disturbed – air plunged into water – a sound akin to music.

The mirror I float on is black – the kind of black made by clarity. Clean, dark depths. Water. On water. Supported by water. Transported by water.DSC00497

At the margins, ferns like great green feathers dip. At the green, green margins, reed warblers sing. At the margins, the water I have moved peaks and falls over clay and mussel-shells. The blue of sky, white of cloud and green of trees swirl into a kaleidoscope of circles and snakes, and figures of eight.

In my mind – nothing – nothing more than this. Water. The proximity of water.


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