In the Far East, water gleams in the ditches. It is soft and quiet and clouds move fast to the west.

 

Down by the Humber we eat mince pies and squint at a far off bird, hoping it’s an owl. A large flock of barnacle geese on the banks walk a little this way and then that way. Yellow rushes blow about in the wind and an egret flies over them. It’s not an owl we decide, its tail is too long.

 Far East

The fields are bare and brown. Skeletal trees and finger posts define the horizon, there are gulls on the ground and ditch dykes divide them.

 

Sometimes the sky is translucent blue like porcelain and the winter sun is stark enough to spot-light the ploughed soil and hedges. A billowing plastic bag bowls onto stage, fast and graceful across the field touching down just enough to kiss the earth then lifting again, escaping, airborne and racing, a beautiful thing though bound to become a ghost-bag snarled and grumbled at in a tree.

 

Water gleams in the ditches. It’s soft and quiet. Clouds move fast to the west. Huddled dark figures walk dogs over the trods, they look like people in Van Goghs early charcoal drawings.

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