Close your eyes. Ear shoals with dippy down sounds and on the go somewhere. Gurgle gones or is it going? Gong! Marvel at your inability to reproduce the sounds. Yet this rock knows its business, unmoved it moves weaving the water into silk tassels. The sun prints leopard skins onto the stones. Blocks of bright-light shadows give way to snaking wiggles. Down here out of the way all is in green and edible browns. Water is filling up the earth’s secret places and lying in wait for fishes. Water re-arranges her dress, constantly changing shape without losing her identity. Finding the least resistance is finding the same level. Teasing ripples teeter into something else; a trick for lights is strange to eyes. The shimmer sway of river-weed matches the movement in the leaves. Is it this way? Colours say so, as does the buzz momentum of flies co-ru-scating their day-lives in the hereafter of now. The sun picks up every bubble and spans each one with silver. They sparkle on the turn, give way to sudden eclipses or streak across your heaven. Pearls of water make up the Kennet river slipping out of the hills. The water comes and goes. Loving gravity the way things will roll off tongues or a snake drops its skin by moving sideways. Not one drop is left out; one for all and all for one. Every drop is different. No matter how hard you look no-one can follow the order of disappearance. Up in the clouds are signatures of what is below. You are not going anywhere and so the world comes to you. Time sweeps the back of trees; a passing cloud is so near yet so far. The gap between the worlds is an eye-blink. The great abyss of space is shaped by the ephemeral. Each time you look into the stream see its strangeness, its adaptability, its disregard for signposts. Pearls of water are in your mind, glistening, receding. Or is it reseeding? Try to draw them. You might as well bottle the sun.
(Swallowhead Springs is the source of the Kennet river, Wiltshire)