The north ford is a memory of shallows in a brown river.

On a dry spring you could lift your skirts and argue with pebbles. Today the Lynne is wide-shouldered. A stick you throw does not stand; it leaves.

Hop, if he has followed, says the feast will not wait. Col’s horses blow. The packhorse bridge behind you still hums its pebble-note.

You can sound from the bank with a pole, like a person whose job is not to become a story.

You can wade because tired feet want a shorter sentence than bridge, repair, ferry.

The current has an opinion that does not care about Saint Elswith.

North of the ford the marsh begins, a wet rumor that will have its own ideas later. South, the village, then the bridge, then a mile of bank to Bram. You stand where dry spring would have made you brave. Brown water is a different teacher.

Col’s horses stamp. Horses are not maps. You can smell the marsh already, north, peat and green lies. South-west the hospice chimney. You are standing on a decision disguised as a bank.