Seen from the old graves of the Priory, a curtain of Irish mists thickened and waned over Lough Arrow, parried by the morning breeze. Islands of reeds floated easily amongst the nothing as wild Brown Trout rose to the reflections of butterflies. White ones.
A milky sun broke through, burning away the mysteries, lighting the corners, chasing the pale greys, bringing its own shadowlands to dwell in the untouched corners.
Swans, two of them, dipped and rose in unison, white sentinels bleached by the growing light.
Strands of unseen weed tangled my legs as I waded into the soupy shallows, fish fins flashing my thighs and wobbling my resolve. Unseen spongy growths swallowed my feet, encouraging me to launch into the organic knots that formed and reformed around my shivering skin.
Dragonflies sewed patterns inches above the tactile, membranous surface film, basketing the hordes of bitey things in their spiny legs, or so I hoped. Above these a nursery of Sand Martins swallowed Gnats, or were they just laughing at me as I wallowed my way to the middle?
The white sentinels weren’t so forgiving. I made my apologies and retired from their watery realm.
