Evening at Spitchwick
Warm sun, chill breeze, cold river…ice-cream head! The surface is smooth like liquid brass, reflecting acid-green leafed trees. Occasionally the wind catches the water which wrinkles along its path. As I swim I hear birds, the ripples from my stroke and plinks and plops as fish jump for midges near the bank. The sun is low and catches my eyes, sparkling from damp eyelashes. My skin burns with the cold.