The bog cotton is out, congregational, constellational, twinkling in a wind that sings the greenest green to the lone rowan tree, breathing May into the dun coloured moor.


Mist rolls in from the river, shrouding the giant pylon, it’s concrete piling mangrove roots sink down deep in the mud. I meet pensioner Tom, sitting, smoking a large cigar. Says he feels less guilty watching the racing and footie if he’s been for a walk. He takes in the view up river, cigar to his lips, smiles and shakes my hand. Says he won’t forget my name. Down river the brutalist Kincardine Bridge looking for all its worth like it could be striding across the Volga in the Soviet Union of the 1930’s. Rotting, sinking ghost boats bear their worn ribs, picked clean by a thousand tides. Butterflies and a whispering wind through the splintering, animating, flick book danger to life 275,000 volt railings. The graceful repetition of the bridge’s pillars swing out over the water in the pale silver light.