After the Rain.
The heavy rain over the past twenty-four hours has filled the streams turning them brown with peat and silt. Now instead of flowing in an orderly fashion through the culverts that burrow beneath the path, the water gushes and gurgles over the flattened mud, spreading speckled creamy foam onto the grass.
I appear to be the only person here tonight. I embrace the solitude, breathe in the rich scent of the wet moors.
No sign of the herons, but the kestrels were out, slicing the grey sky, flying together. Not hunting tonight, the light was fading, they were just flying together up out of the valley and over the hillside, towards the old quarry where I think they have a roost.
The owl appeared, silently. Brown and pale against the slate grey sky. Hovering low over the long grasses, flickering in and out of sight, it seemed to track me as I walked along the disused railway track.
As I walk along the rough path, I am surprised by the wildness of the landscape by the helter skelter jumble of the hills and valleys and man made walls and tracks. It appears never ending in the gathering gloom. I feel as if I could get lost here, and disappear, but of course I can’t. Overhead a plane lumbers towards Manchester airport, only the sound of its engines signifying its presence. In the distance I see another walker moving steadily along the track towards me. I feel rain on my face. Time to head for home.