The Forth.

Silver ghost clouds floating on still water, slipping between worlds, unnoticed. Giant pylons march this landscape, two abreast in their greatcoats, humming to keep their spirits up. Walking on duck boards through dark pools of rush and root. Off the path, following the Black Devon river to its mouth where it empties into the Forth, through thickets of snag happy hawthorn, wool pulled, skin pricked, hair caught. Arriving at an eight feet high fence with barbed wire. I joke that we could do with a spot of vandalism about now and a moment later a hole large enough to crawl through is spotted. Sitting on a dead tree limb beside a yellow flip flop and old car seat I take in the view. The banks of the river slip into a silken scene from a seventeenth century Dutch landscape painting, if you ignore the pylons. The grey mud pops like raindrops, belches when I throw a stone into its swollen belly. There is a softness and an edge to this place depending on your point of view, both conditions will be washed up or taken away, as memories are wont to do. A slow day of walking .

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