Three Mallard paddle resolutely up Conyer Creek. The drakes resplendent, in shimmering velvet neckerchiefs of forest green. Rising and falling in turn, as if on horseback. Cresting a short, wind over tide, chop.
I follow the three aquatic musketeers seaward, past the bare stumps of a fallen jetty.
Out of the sleepy creek head hamlet, along the Saxon Shore Way.
A tracery of sun-silvered branches, finer and more intricate than any square ship’s rigging, reaches into a blue sky. It is streaked with high cirrus and vapour trails. Harbingers of storm Arwen’s imminent arrival, from the chill north.
Beneath the bare outstretched tree limbs, Wood Blewitt mushrooms spring from a deep springy mass of lichens, making a feast of the fallen leaves
Beside me, Staghorn blazes crimson in tangled hedgerows.
Soon the wooded path opens onto long, sinuous, grass covered sea wall . Stretching away into the distance.
Across the Swale, on the Sheppey shore, Don Quixote wind turbines gyrate lazily. Conjuring electricity from the skies.
And the Westerly Fulmar, Speedwell, beats out the creek, through a maze of withies, to gain her freedom.
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