East Stoke

I walk down the lane which crosses over the river meadows - down from the manned level crossing - when Big Bob is on duty, you must never show any impatience - it has just rained - the meadows, the bright berries, the delicate lost flowers amongst the long grasses - they are all fresh and still dripping rainwater - the air is warm and soft around me - I tear off my tweed jacket - there is a faint silvery mist over the trees in the distance - the sky is a vague grey wash of colour -

By the River Laboratory, I steal into a dell beside the river - it starts to rain again - I shelter under light green leaves - I can see raindrops marking the surface of the river - it is shallow here, only a foot or so deep, rushing over small yellowish coloured stones - the water, though, is turbid and brown today - flowing past tall nettles and purple flowers - there is a weir a hundred yards downstream, and looping meanders beyond,  with alders clustered on their banks -

At the end of the lane, beyond the crossroads, I look across a field, over a gate between two trees, at a mysterious field in the rain - a calm horse is standing at the far side of the field, looking at me across the drenched grass - I wonder if I can sense shapes moving in the air, like the narrator of  Lost Hearts