Along the valley floor, below the wood where my cottage stands, runs a young river. I say 'young' because this river is born at the head of the valley; in terms of years it is quite ancient.
As it bubbles up into the daylight it gurgles and sparkles, so happy to be free of the gloom under ground. Bravely it sets off on its long journey to the sea and as it wends its way southward this merry thread of water cuts a path for itself through the soft chalk of the valley, and thus, slowly, it broadens and deepens.
Come walk with me beside this infant river, from its shaded source to the man-made trout lake just a mile along its course.
Along the bank at dawn we see
splendid woodland, natural and wild
tender leaves, freshly succulent
chatting with the sunrise breeze.
And beside the water
rushes and meadowsweet bloom
king cups blaze, yellow-gold and waxy.
Roe deer are running, muntjac too
with wobbly legged fawns at heel
hooves dusted with buttercup pollen.
Willows bow, weeping in the stream
dark Alder catkins like miniature cones
and stately ash trees gently sigh.
Black faced sheep are a-grazing
Highland cattle lazily chew the cud
while Ratty's in the water at play.
Ducks and Kingfishers are nesting
eggs of white and gaudy blue,
see the Barn Owl glides moth-like.
Bird song fills the sunrise
rabbits warn with hind feet stamping
as a fox wanders by.
Over weir and down merry fall
singing and laughing the river flows
where trout and carp and minnow hide.
Sweet water
Clean water
Merry water.
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