The river turns estuarine here. It runs slow and brown. Mudflats pewter sheen in the low sun. Bony reeds crackle. Oystercatchers, redshank, curlew, their songs echo across the hills. The tide is turning out there.


The first duffel coat walk of the autumn, out over the fields behind the village. Newly green shoots of a winter crop are ruffled by burrowing curlews, their beaks thick with earth. One bird stretches its foot up to it’s beak scratching off the mud. Siskins’ yellow plummage pure gold in the late afternoon sun. Muddy path, a noisy, chatty burn. Moonstone clouds melt into a purple bruised sky. The only sound, the cry of the curlew catches in my throat and I carry it home.


Bookshelf rows of grey granite topple into the ocean, where a sea eagle perches atop, scanning the seas horizon. It stretches its wings as wide as the bay, lifting with it the sky, dragging it behind as it sets course northward.