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