Just shy of Tregaron, about 63 miles upriver, there’s a field.
As fields go, it’s very skinny, more a slither of meadow really.
This meadowette flanks the river and floods when the rain factories put a big order in.
On dry days, it’s marshalled and mown by a horse, a dappled brown and white creature with a mane dreadlocked by the wind.
This day, she just stood there.
Now, we have no hard evidence, but I’d say she was listening to the river.
She seemed to be soaking up every lap.
Just like a tree absorbs rain.
After a while, she stopped and turned towards me.
Over a gate we shared a chunk of choc.
A while later, I too sat and listened to the river.
It’s quite a sound, quite a conversation.
No idea what we talked about, but next time you pass running water, eavesdrop.
Peter Kirby
