Ribbit

                                                                                                                                                                                                   Photo by Jo Sinclair

The water stirs. Silver pussy-willows have metamorphosed into pollen starbursts blown into eddies by high winds. The flick of a tail draws me to surfacing newts. Whirligig beetles carry the sky in their air pockets as they whizz in circles like fairground dodgems. Toads are croaking squeakily. Their coppery eyes give them away in this dark, leafy place. They peer out at me before clawing their way back down into the peaty depths.

Last year I explored a hollow tangled with the living limbs of broken willow trees. The soil was a rich and fertile bed for teasels. I had never known it as a pond until the winter washed the drought away. Now the local topography is shifting in my mind. The hollow is the size and shape of a swimming pool. 'That's a Roman pond where they stocked fish' I am informed. My dog-walker friend adds that the shallower hollows in the area are craters from bombing practice. They were full to the brim but receding now.