The walk.


The swans woolly bugle funnels up the river to the idle North Sea ships waiting out the lull. Orange curtains twitch, brick chimneys lean into a wind that blatters the outhouse doors. Unhinging. Passing by a conversation, ‘You never tell me anything’, she says. ‘Ask me anything, I don’t have secrets’, he says, holding out his arms. Mudlarking. Under the bridge a cuttlefish bone gleams amongst bladderwrack while in fields above the town the red ploughed earth skewls toward a warming spring sun.

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