A heron stands sentry at the side of the canal, half hidden in morning misted reeds. His head cocked slightly, he holds his glassy eye trained on the camouflage reflections of overhanging branches on the water, watching for the shadowy movement from those that dwell beneath her surface. They are there, I have seen the eternity rings spread from a fly-catching fish's bubble pop, the tiny ripples expanding outwards, making the reflections shimmer, a watery mirage, a rippled funhouse mirror.
There is bucolic beauty in every direction, air honeyed with hay, tall heavy seed heads woven with spider silks nod at the bank with horsetails and damp thistledown. Golden fields, cut to stubble are spotted with wheels of straw and hedgerows show a promise of Autumn fruitfulness. The white noise of the river's journey underpins lowing cows and the bleating of sheep. Birds sing out from hidden places within tree and hedge announcing the new day. Ted circles at my feet, impatient for adventure. Time to walk the plank. Let the gentle snores of fellow river dwellers recede and find out what secrets the river has to whisper as she tumbles to the sea.
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