A Very English River

This woodland stream could be a small English river, it dibbles and dabbles, it meanders, and has the air of an old water way, one that never saw the need to rush or gush. The small ripples pace themselves; a sepia rivulet that tugs at a nutrient silt, carrying it down gently to green pastures. In autumn the fallen leaves add ocher flotillas that sail into valley mists, never to return. April showers refresh the brook, it waltzes between tufted hillocks, glides almost giddily between sky and earth. If the path of the water flow has a name it is known only to grazing cattle, that drink of it, and the meadow lark that hovers high above the little beck to sing of its native wandering ways.