The river is uncoiling itself, sidling on silt flats, a grey clay slip, leadened glaze film on sinking boots. Reeds flicker, splinters of water, field, pylon, cow.
Low tide on this estuarine flat of wholly neither land or water. Submerging, disappearing, this fog skinned place.
Waiting at the bus stop, Leith.
Driving west. Mudflats, salt marsh,roadworks, rain. Kincardine bridge, a signpost to Skinflats.
In the fields earth mounded in rows, neatly parted, comb down to the sea. Over the stile all is green with spring unburrowing now winter has retreated. Green and green and pink where rock shoulders through, all elbows and shins and ankle boned. And here a giant stone arch, we walk under an armpit. Gorse perfume drifts up to the song of the skylark, falling back down as silver stars for gannets in an upside down sky.