14

Canal side. Today early and the mist lifting slowly off the canal, melting into the trees, spreading like some Victorian horror accessory across the new ploughed fields of heavy black earth. It felt so much like a form of peace on earth; an unspectacular but necessary beauty. Some form of privaledged access to something precious but fleeting. Heavy swans nesting, sitting tight, immovable. The word is probably stolid. 

Later, the return at the end of a day and the mood is more gotta get through this. Half way home I see the bloated body of some mammal, probably a rabbit, almost floating. Just below the surface, nevertheless, buoyant after its own fashion. The weight of the day presses on the trees. The swans remain, diligent. A friend talks whisky.