markle
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My stories
Wren Writing
A late summer evening, when night was pushing the last indentations of heat from the air, the sinking dark was speared by an insistent call. This is my first “real” memory of the wren.
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- 571 reads
High Water (2)
A sequel, two days later. I take the river way again. In the meantime water has consumed our garden for the second time this year, but it’s still a long way from the house.
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- 637 reads
High Water (1)
Just after the solstice, dark still comes down hard in late afternoon, and the ribbon of the towpath is barely visible at first.
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- 522 reads
Tree Cover
The sound of rain on our coats is enveloped by the sound of rain in the trees, which is itself soon enveloped by the great noise of the river in the valley bottom.
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- 1088 reads
Of Place (2): The View from Folly Bridge
My own “place” is not far away, and on the same river as that of Nash, the Thames (see "Of Place (1)"). As the Abingdon Road approaches Oxford city centre, it crosses a bridge.
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- 548 reads