December 11 walk

crying crows ache the air

cockerel’s anguished crow

the cock goes on miserably against the ‘warpoon’ noise of the wind in rushes

a slow, very slow roll arms outstretched till I am head first over a wet ditch

swing around and feet into mud, mud fills with water, mudwater, linked and covered

I can see where I have walked through the reeds, a path made by my boots as if rumpling combed hair, tufts stand up and I wonder if I have disturbed a creature’s habitat – standing half in a marsh with bubbles all around is to think of possibilities, feeling the slow change of temperature of my feet through rubber and wondering if the pondweed I’ve uncovered is grass underwater or just rushes that have not made it upright

how much time it takes to mark an edge and find it, and this edge nearly underwater with its power lines trooping off relentlessly

I have found a concrete ply next to a full dyke, the mechanics of running this land water, and how that is going to be stopped, what will happen naturally after years of man management?

My ache to be a wild witness is so powerful what do I have to do to emerge or merge

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