29 July 2025
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I wonder what it means when a river has part of its route
taken – a meander it has wandered possibly for
millennia.
The Rea seems to remember her lost limb, an itch in the
land. She reclaims parts of it when winter provides the resources to do so. The
dark pool, formed from the darkness of the season, reflects the sky and the
trees and allows us glimpse what she lost.
But it is only a partial remembering, a stillness.
On the discarded bank, the senile willow-queen declares
that a river once flowed here. The young alders chatter in the mud, ignoring her,
yet tracing a course they never knew with their roots.
