Stricken by a passing lorry willow wands lie prostrate, un-feathered (green daggers loved by W. Morris) whipped off their tree forever.
Wading in a mountain torrent, avalanche of water biffing black rock gentling green eddies, spuming white depths, the wall-eyed Kashmiri ghillie tore strips off bendy willow branches, trussing trout brown slippery cold, tricked to death by flies- maytime blue- and sometimes little pulsing frogs cast in when the sport got tedious- with no sign of easy gains for the big shots with their rising bellies And picnic hampers from the plains. Willow switches cooled the fish cradled by temperate leaves in place as chianti bottles in a raffia case.
That will never be again, sad vale of Kashmir, our Shangr-la. Ghillies, horseboys, houseboat–wallahs, have now found new roles, other masters.
Suspended on a Cotswold ridge the moon hung pink, a grapefruit segment, succulent, moist, out in space, while rabbits scutted to dark coppices.
In the train a German boy shrugged off his backpack, wiped his forehead on his sleeve settled into lunch dissecting grapefruit with considered markings of an army knife
Posted rosy crescents one by one into his boundless orifice made elastic with habits of rolls, orange juice, crisps bulging from his Sainsbury bag.
So one image looped to another and another threading back into the past, sometimes unbearably sad, sometimes funny and banal.