The Dowlish has been in a bit of a rush lately, gathering run off from unseasonably dry ground, channelling the sharp, icy rain from thundrous anvil clouds as best it can between its nettled banks, over the riffles and runs that tumble down to Donyatt where trout are seen still by the bridge, wiggling nose first into the flow, snapping at midges that cloud the surface, swimming stream-aligned with rich green reeds that waver above the gravel bed, as the waterboatmen skating on the meniscus amongst bubbles and apple blossom discarded in the strong south-westerly draughts that rustle the browned, dried-up willow catkins, turn up the pale green foliage to show the even lighter green undersides; it carries the scratchy, creaky, anxious call of the blue-green-brown fleet-winged, darting, fishing bird in an eliptical, alarmed circuit of its watery territory.


CLP 10/05/2019

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