The Upper River at Christmas

It is late December, a mild midwinter’s day in the week that stumbles between Christmas and New Year

when from the Ferryman at Bablock Hythe we walk upriver to the Rose Revived following a broadening slate-grey curve.

Not a leaf, no wintering geese but one swan, one heron, one coot, and the blackthorn all sticks and shrivelled sloes;

where, drawn by the river’s quiet and above the sky huge and alarming we too find little to say.

A wooden bridge spans the river from one deserted meadow to another and on a little further Northmoor lock

with its ancient paddle and rymer weir. Padlocked. We cannot cross but look down, watch dark water spooling.