River walk.

Skaggling geese haul blankets of snow cloud from the north. Water lies sullen on the claggy winter fields. Grey river mud slides slow curves between the reed beds brittle whisperings and Spring seems in no hurry to arrive. Across the field lie the remains of armament warehouses, dozens built in a regular grid formation for use during the second world war. Ammunition was sailed up the Forth to be unloaded by crane and stored here, away from Edinburgh in the east. The crane is still on the riverbank, it’s railway track all but gone. Pushing through the head high reeds it is possible to get a closer look at the little blue crane, it’s arm outstretched, waiting for another shipment. The tide is on the turn, covering its tracks, lapping the small island where seagulls sleep. Grey settles, stains the day.