We stand dwarfed by the dark umbrella of the sky.
We look into the depths of dark, seeing a handful of dreams scattered over the cosmos. We share them out; a dream for you and a dream for me.
With infinity above us, we will never run out of dreams.
Rich’s round face lost its ubiquitous smile.
“Oh dear!”
Olive was perched uneasily on the picnic rug, glancing at the grass with suspicion. She picked her head up upon hearing Rich’s tone and leaned over to join him in looking inside the hamper. The reason for his dismay was immediately apparent. A complete culinary catastrophe lay within the wicker interior.
“Everything is ruined,” she observed.
“Well, not everything,” Rich said, recovering his customary cheerful demeanour. Olive returned her attention to the untrustworthy grass as he delved inside the basket. Having rummaged through smashed pies and pulverised plums, he withdrew a few intact objects. After half a dozen salvage trips, he seemed to be content.
“There. We have half a picnic,” he said, using a dock leaf to remove some jam from his hand.
Olive looked at the remnants and sighed. A jar of pickled peppers, two lemons and some chicken smothered in cumin were left. There was a smear of chocolate obscuring the label on the jar and Olive felt an unbelievable desire for a taste of its sweetness.
“We should just give up and go home,” she said. “This is a waste of time.”
“But, there is still a picnic,” Rich said. His plump hand swept across the surviving food. “We can still enjoy the fresh air. And the company.”
Olive regarded him with disdain.
“There won’t be any ants,” Rich said.
Olive sighed. She hated Rich’s blind optimism. It was ridiculous. It was foolish. But, what annoyed her the most was that he was usually able to persuade her to join him on the bright side.
So, Olive stayed on the rug, eating the unappetising picnic. She stayed even when the drizzle began. She stayed because this was as good as life would get.
The world was frost. Across the marshes, the ice was thick – even the mud was frozen.
Eira stood amidst the glittering crystals, feeling the sun’s warmth groping its way through the night’s chill. Where the heat touched the trees, she could see the new leaves, greener each day. Geese took their cue from the golden light to gather and fly in skeins across the clear sky. Beneath a stunted tree, the snowdrops were beginning to break through the solid ground.
At a time when others might rejoice at the end of winter, Eira was emptiness. Her world was disappearing. Its passing would leave her diminished until the chill of the north wind was felt again.
She pinched a stem of a nearby plant and slid her finger and thumb from root to shoot. Ice crystals clustered together and she placed them on her palm. For a moment, they glittered in the sunlight. Then, they began to ebb away; Eira’s last sensation of the frost was the chill and the dampness it left behind. The small puddle that remained was joined by a teardrop. There was no pleasure in parting.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
“Leif! You came!”
“What else would I do?” Leif said, his face opening into a smile. “I heard you were leaving. I have something for you, something you gave me.”
His embrace was immediate. Eira was overwhelmed by warmth, the fragrance of flowers and the sound of birdsong.
“For you,” he whispered, releasing her.
“Thank you.”
With that, she left him on the marshes, rising to the sky before leaving with the skeins of geese.
The bench on the hill has a name upon it, etched onto a small plaque.
It tells the passing walker how someone loved this place, capturing the love and displaying it forever.
The bench sits empty, the marshes and the pasture stretched out in front of it, ready to help someone fall in love all over again. The unusual warmth of the Autumn sun battles with the last frowning grey of dawn. A kestrel hovers above, looking down, seeing all and enjoying the breeze which carries news of a turning tide.
Patrick walked out towards the sea wall, eyes screwed up against the watery light of the new day. He had spent the night with a woman whose name he had forgotten already. In fact, he was struggling to recall most of the night. He assumed that he had enjoyed himself at the time; nights like that seemed to blur into one.
The bench seemed unusually welcome. His legs felt weary and a nagging sense of unease irritated him. He should have felt happy or content or proud. Instead, he was filled with a sense of loss. What he mourned, he could not identify. Instead, he just had a feeling that he was missing something he had never possessed.
His heavy tread took him up the rise to the solitary bench. Before he allowed his legs to lower him onto the bench, he read the plaque. Looking at the hard seat, overlooking the unremarkable green marshes, Patrick wondered why somebody loved it here. He would have understood somewhere with a hot, sandy beach or someone loving a bar that stretched on forever, stocked with drinks that were free. But this place?
He lowered himself with a thump and let the gentle view wash over him.
A glimmer of peace had just shone a little, somewhere deep inside him, when the sound of footsteps on gravel snuffed it out. The footsteps were an intrusion.
The young woman was dressed for the outdoors, from a knitted pink hat down to her boots. Although Patrick could not see her fully, there did not seem to be anything remarkable about her. He returned his attention to the view as the walker carried on past him. His attention turned to a flock of sheep galloping across their field towards a man on a quad bike.
“It’s a lovely view, isn’t it?”
He liked the sound of the voice, a gentle cadence disguising an unexpected strength.
“Very nice,” he replied.
“The bench says someone loved it here,” she said. “I like the idea that someone felt like that. I love it here too.”
When Patrick turned to nod his agreement, she smiled. That was the moment that the sun came out fully. The water in the dykes began to sparkle. A bird erupted in tinkling song. The river began to swell with the new tide.
As he returned her smile, Patrick realised that he loved it here too.
If you enjoyed this story, you can read more of my short-form fiction in my latest anthology.
It is available for Kindle or in paperback here: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Long-Walks-Short-Paths-Anthology/dp/B0BHN2XY8T/ref=sr_1_1?crid=11P2OMSF4VGEU&keywords=stephen+leatherdale&qid=1667052699&qu=eyJxc2MiOiIxLjAwIiwicXNhIjoiMS4wMCIsInFzcCI6IjAuOTIifQ%3D%3D&sprefix=%2Caps%2C243&sr=8-1
Flora is the Roman goddess of Spring
In the middle of the village, there is a field.
In the field, the proud stems of grass are losing their summer splendour. Their seed heads are spent. The flowers’ sweet hues have have been replaced by fading yellows of fallen leaves. The splashes of colour are still there, now a sign of decay instead of growth.
Flora stood in that field, her once fine dress faded and tattered. The smell of damp and rot was carried on the chilly breeze. Above her, the sky was filled with thick, grey clouds. There was no-one else to be seen for miles around. The rain that was forecast was set to be bombastic; the world was readying itself for lashing sheets of heavy malevolent drops. Nobody wanted to go out in tha sort of weather.
But.
Flora was out in it, anticipating the whip and the tearing of the storm. She was ready to be covered in the fallen orange fire-bomb leaves. She was ready for the boughs of proud oaks to tumble and to prostrate themselves on the earth around her. As a rumble sounded in the distance, Flora craved the hot jabs of electricity when the storm found time to fire lightning at her.
She had decided she had no worth.
She had nothing to stay for.
The people would not miss her.
She was so intent upon the storm’s progress that she missed the old man approaching.
“You need to get indoors,” he said. His gruff voice stated what to him was nothing other than a simple fact.
“I must wait for the storm, I am spent,” she replied.
As her head bent and she allowed her spine to curve, so he caught her.
“Let me take you home. The missus will know what to do to help. We’ll look after you.”
Gently, he eased her into walking again. They began to cross the field, leaving her isolated spot far behind. There was no need for words, just simple care and love. The red-brick houses drew closer, huddling together in the face of the storm. In the windows, curtains twitched and the occupants looked out anxiously. Their eyes followed the old man as he helped Flora along the path.
Behind the two people, an improbable patch of sunlight appeared on the grass. In the pale, golden glow, dewdrops caught the light. They sparkled, a momentary glimmer before falling to the ground, pushed by the impatient wind. The clouds prevailed after the brief interlude of brightness. But not before hope had been sown, exactly on the spot where Flora had been standing.
My collection of short stories, ‘Long Walks on Short Paths’, will be released on Kindle on 27th October. https://www.amazon.co.uk/Long-Walks-Short-Paths-Anthology-ebook/dp/B0BHJM23VV/ref=zg_bsnr_4542740031_sccl_2/257-1309404-6645857?pd_rd_i=B0BHJM23VV&psc=1
What were these leaves?
They were the tight-wound promises of Spring.
What were these leaves?
They were the broad shade-givers of Summer, creating patches of cool from the glare of the sun.
What are these leaves?
They are the yellowed tears that fall to the ground, reminding us that life includes endings.
What will these leaves become?
They will become fragile, skeletal litter. After that, a scent that reminds us that once there was life. Soon, they will be no more than soil, a rich home to shy-capped mushrooms and scuttling beetles.
What are these leaves?
They are a covenant. They tell us that life was and will return.
These are the leaves.
The lightship pictured is on the marshes, landlocked and redundant as a provider of maritime safety. On a sunny day, with the tide out, it can look rather odd. However,on a misty night, it can still shine out, a glimmer of light in the gloom.
Here is a story about the lightship offering hope and prviding safe passage, even whilst it is landlocked.
“What use is it?” the woman asked. Her voice was loud and scornful. “Why is it even here?”
Brad eased past the crowd of walkers who were standing in a knot, all but blocking his passage along the sea wall. He was trying not to take the bait.
If he could have summoned the patience, he would have told the woman about that fateful night. It was a night that was his and his alone.
Only he could remember the mist and the cold. The experience of being lost and alone on the marshes was a trial he had faced by himself. Only his dreams were haunted by that awful night.
It was his hope alone which seeped into the mud, seemingly never to be seen again. They were his tears which had fallen onto the samphire. It had been his feet failing to find purchase on the narrow plant bridges. It had been his desolation and his wretched sadness when he had fallen into the greedy, cloying mud.
Only his heart had swelled with renewed hope when he had seen the proud light piercing the mist. When he had embraced the cold, solid steel, only his will to live had been restored.
The walkers might have been on the sea wall to visit the lightship but only he was there because of it.
The landlocked vessel still saved lives.
Brad knew exactly why it was there.
It is a new collection of short-form fiction, two novellas, some short stories and flash fiction await the reader. Between them, they deal with disparate themes but are always written with a love of singular characters and quirky plots.
8pm
The sunset was the last thing that Malc needed.
He tried to free the boat from the mudbank again, rocking and bouncing to create some momentum. The daylight was essential for him to see. Without it, his blind thrashing about, his vain stabs with the oar, were useless. In the fading golden light, he could still make out the wooden jetty he had been aiming for. The houseboat that lay alongside it, round windows now emitting their own glow, was frustratingly close.
One more bounce and another heave with the oar enabled Malc to get into the channel. At last, he would be able to get there, to reach his goal. He imagined clambering aboard, surprising Mel and fulfilling his goal.
His oars dug into the dark water. The river was too busy to yield. It had somewhere else to be, out in the ocean and not here in the dingy channel. Small brown wading birds were already digging in the wet mud, left vacant by the ebbing tide. Malc rowed against the current until his muscles screamed. His palms burned. The oars creaked like they would break. Despite his effort, he realised he had made no progress against the tide.
He slumped hopelessly. The wicked flow of the receding tide took him away, out to sea.
7pm
Malc felt the intoxication and bravado of the beer leave his system as soon as he sat in the boat. Not only was he aware of the importance of behaving more sensibly now he was on the water, he was struck by the gravity of what he was going to do. Rowing the mile or so just as the tide was turning, was no mean feat. But, he knew it was worth it to surprise Mel. He smiled, thinking of the reception he would receive when he got to Mel’s houseboat.
His first few strokes took the small craft out to the channel. Its path was rather erratic and Malc found it took all his concentration to keep the oars working together. Once he was in the deeper water, his rowing style settled down. His thinning dark hair was ruffled by the breeze and his efforts. His arms, used to rowing, bulged with each pull of the oars. The water was slack, making his progress steady and assured. The sun sparkled on the beads of sweat on his forehead. Each droplet showed as a rainbow as it fell from his face, dislodged as he slaved over the oars.
All too soon, the water began to flow. It now dashed itself against the prow of Malc’s boat, slowing his progress. His rowing became more erratic; his efforts were being divided between heaving on the oars and ensuring that he was avoiding the mud already poking above the surface. The mile was hardly begun, Mel’s houseboat still agonisingly far away, yet the tide was conspiring against him.
He rowed on, feeling every buffet from the current against his craft, All that kept him driving on was the thought of Mel. At one point, his tears welled as he thought of the romantic nature of his quest. His desire to reach Mel was overwhelmingly beautiful in that moment. Only the thought of slipping onboard and delivering a moment of joy kept him rowing.
Such was his impassioned effort, the houseboat came into sight. The evening sun, creeping ever closer to the horizon, gilded it, a prize befitting the trial which Malc had endured. Once more, the man began to turn his head and look at where he was headed. This time, it was not to ensure safe passage but in eager anticipation. With each stroke, water became less forgiving, pushing more and more firmly at his fragile hull.
With the increased current, and with his constant turning, Malc was zig-zagging across the channel. His rowing was weaker too, his strength beginning to fade after the continued effort.
It seemed almost inevitable when the boat slowed. A scraping noise from beneath Malc indicated that he had run aground. With a clearer head, he might have turned back a little, extricating himself from the cloying, soft mud, before resuming his attempts at reaching Mel. Instead, he tried to row over the mudbank. causing the boat to become firmly stuck.
Malc swore.
His mouth dried as he looked at the continually ebbing tide, the emerging mud and the sinking sun. Falling onto his hands and knees, he tried to force the boat away from the mud.
All the time, his eyes were fixed on the maddeningly close houseboat.
6pm
“Yeah, we went out for a meal, me and Mel,” Malc told Bob over their fourth pint of beer.
They were stood by the large, plate-glass window of the yacht club, overlooking the marina. Outside, the sun shone, still warm after a hot, pleasant day. The tide was high and the water had covered over the marshes. The world looked wondrous. It was a day to believe that anything was possible, anything at all.
“Good was it? You lucky sod.” Bob said.
“Yeah, we had a nice time. It was like we had known each other for years,” Malc said. He was not usually drawn into revealing personal details, but the beer and the thrill of a date with Mel had loosened his tongue.
Bob watched a young sailor mastering the summer breeze and nodded approvingly.
Looking at Malc again, he asked, “Will you go out together again?”
Malc nodded enthusiatically.
“Yeah, for sure. Sooner rather than later.”
A glint in his eye, Bob said,”Come off it, you are never going to get another date with Mel. No way.”
Malc bristled. Downing his pint, he snapped, “I could go to Mel now, if I wanted. I would be welcomed with open arms. We’re already bonded, I can tell. Instant connection. I could row out to the houseboat this evening as a surprise. Mel would love it!”
“The tide’s about to turn.,” Bob said. “Stay for another pint.”
“You don’t think I can do it. You don’t think Mel wants to see me,” Malc said, his voice raised.
Bob looked at his friend’s bulky frame and tried to sound soothing.
“Of course I do. I am just saying, just stay and have another pint. Go tomorrow. When you have more time”
“I want to see Mel,” Malc replied.
He banged his glass down on the heavily varnished windowsill and left the clubhouse at speed. Bob watched as Malc ran off to where his rowing boat was moored. Bob knew that there was no stopping Malc now.
He walked back to the bar, his now-empty glass in his hand.
When Sue came to serve him, Bob told her the whole story whilst she poured his pint. When he mentioned that Malc was intending to make his way out to the houseboat, Sue stopped pouring. She fixed Bob with a piercing, serious stare.
“He ought not to go out there. Not right now,” she said.
Bob nodded and replied, “That’s what I said. Not with the tide on the turn.”
Sue looked around before leaning forward conspiratorially.
“It’s not only the tides,” she said.
5pm
Message sent from Sue’s phone: How did it go on the date?
Message sent from Mel’s phone: It was ok. Nice enough evening.
Message sent from Sue’s phone: Oh, ok. You seeing him again?
Message sent from Mel’s phone: Maybe one day. He was a bit intense for me. Gave me the creeps a bit. I hope he will stay away for a while.
Message sent from Sue’s phone: Yeah, I had heard that about him.
Message from Mel’s phone: Could have warned me…
Message from Sue’s Phone: Yeah, sorry. Come to the clubhouse if you get lonely
Message sent from Mel’s phone: No, it’s ok. Adam is popping round tonight. Not going to be lonely!
Message from Sue’s phone: What are you like????
Message from Mel’s phone: Do me a favour, just keep Malc away. I don’t want him finding out about Adam like this. I am not sure he would take it well.
Message from Sue’s phone: Bob’s on the case. Him and Malc are having a drinking session. They have already got their second pint in.
Message from Mel’s phone: Oh good, that’ll keep him busy. And the tide is on my side. I am safe from creepy Malc! Best pop off and get ready for Adam. x
Message from Sue’s phone: Enjoy! And don’t worry. Even Malc must know when the current is flowing against him. x
A companion story, musing on the narrative of the tides.
The mud path led past a field of wheat before Connie arrived on the sea wall.
She was the only person for miles, with only the mournful cry of a curlew for company. Gabe was late, which suited her fine. The bench, perched on the sea wall beckoned her and she sat down. Looking over the vast expanse of water, she could understand why Gabe had invited her here. It was the kind of invitation that could only come from a true friend.
After admiring the view for some time, Connie switched her attention to her phone. She had received a message from Nick on the drive over and now was the perfect moment to read it.
She opened it and read the flirtatious words and the glowing compliments. His charm shone out from the screen and she beamed as she read his invitation to dinner. She had been wary of his attention to begin with. Nick was just some guy who worked in the shop next to hers. He wasa bit forward for her usual standards. But after the long, dreary years she had endured with Mel, she had talked herself into tolerating Nick’s advances.
Connie began to pace along the sea wall, contemplating her response and looking at the water.
The sunshine sparkled off the wavelets lapping at the bottom of the sea wall. Each winking, dazzling glitter was like a nod of permission; she would agree to dinner with Nick. She would agree to happiness, to the thrill of romance and the chance to embrace the excitement. Mel had avoided all of those things, at least with her. It became clear after the divorce that he had enjoyed them with plenty of other women.
Connie was just texting Nick to agree to going out for dinner when she became aware of a stumbling sound behind her. She looked back and saw Gabe puffing his way along the footpath. He smiled up at her as he began to ascend the seawall. Connie felt guilty; she was always affected by that trustworthy and trusting smile. It felt disloyal to be contacting Nick when she was meant to be here with Gabe. So, she rushed off a message to agree to dinner with Nick, before turning her attention to Gabe as he slumped onto the bench. His face was red and sweaty.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” he asked between puffs, looking out over the shimmering water.
She agreed, adding, “It was a great suggestion to come out here, Gabe.”
“I thought you would like it,” he said. “It’s my little secret place. I don’t normally share it with anyone.”
“Yet, you shared it with me,” she said, almost to herself.
“Yes. Is that all right? I think you are a special person, Connie.”
Connie stayed silent and looked out over the water in front of her. She could imagine herself to be sitting beside a lake. Somewhere wonderful, like Italy, she decided. The thing is, with Nick, she could find herself in Italy, sitting beside a lake with him. As sweet as it was for Gabe to share this place, she knew that this was all she might ever expect. A peeling bench, on a seawall, overlooking this brown, muddy water.
“It’s a lovely spot,” she said. “You are a special person, Gabe.”
He remained silent, looking ahead, eyes unblinking.
“I just wanted you to know that I value our friendship,” she told him.
“I don’t want to hear the rest of the sentence,” he said. He turned and treated her to one of his soulful smiles. “Let’s just enjoy the view, shall we?”
They sat and watched the water in science, their mutual understanding allowing for a companionable silence.
Then, Gabe stirred and looked at her with his deep brown eyes.
“He’s a lucky man,” he said.
” Oh, Gabe,” she said.
A gull took off from the water, its cry piercing the tranquil air. They both watched it go.
***
The path was wet and the mud clung to Connie’s boots as she made her way back to the bench. Little more than a month after her first visit, she was back, seeking the solitude and peace she had discovered the first time she had visited. She climbed the sea wall and looked out over the estuary. She had expected to see the bejewelled water that she had seen before. Instead, the whole area was made up of sticky mud. It languished in deep channels, carved by the tides. Scrubby plants clung to the top of the channels, thin and straggly. There was no sparkling today, just this drab, brown colour pallette.
Connie sat heavily on the bench. It was a huge disappointment to not see the beautiful expanse of water in front of her. Even worse was the way it had come on the day Nick had finished with her. The whole adventure had been over in weeks. She had not adventured enough, but clearly Nick had.
There was a noise behind her, a stumbling of game yet awkward steps. She turned to see a dumbfounded Gabe. Then, he smiled, his special smile that told of love and care. The smile that she knew was for her and her alone.
“You came back,” he said. “He didn’t realise how lucky he was.”
Connie looked over the drab marshes. Whilst they did not have the sparkling charms of the fickle tides, the marshes were steadfast and honest. There was, she decided, something to be said for knowing what lay under the surface.
“He didn’t realise how lucky he was,” she agreed. “But, thankfully, I do.”
She reached out a hand along the bench, sending it on its own adventure.
The story to sit alongside this one is here: https://stephenleatherdaleauthor.wordpress.com/2022/07/26/final-mercy/
Whenever she heard him call her name, she shuddered.
Mercy knew that when she heard him call her, nothing good would happen next.
It reached the point where she thought that she could never bear to hear him use her name again.
The day she suggested the walk, she was nervous; it was so hard to predict how he would receive any suggestion. If she was lucky, there would only be raised voices. Sometimes, most times, it would be worse.
But today was one of those rare occasions where he seemed content to follow her lead. So, they took a trip out in the car. He drove, as he always did unless he was drinking. This meant his barking voice was reserved for other road users, who were unwitting victims of his torrents of abuse.
Mercy passed the time watching the hard angles of the town soften into the cushioned verges of the country lanes. He took the opportunity bully the motor with flambouyant revving. A bird rose, startled, as he powered the car past its field. The bird climbed rapidly, a vertical ascent on busy wings. Mercy pondered upon the thoughts of escape, attaining sweet freedom with a clear and decisive flight. The bird, hovering now, trilling to the world about its liberty, faded from view. Mercy craned to look, her head hitting the window as he cornered far too aggressively.
“You are so stupid!” he observed.
Their destination was a small village on the estuary. They pulled up next to a marina. Tethered boats bobbed, straining against their moorings, longing to be free. Ropes jangled furiously against the redundant masts.
“Nice boats,” he observed, although she felt that this was more of a curse than an honest, heartfelt appraisal. She led him around the Marina. They passed a clubhouse where the boats owners sat, sharing stories and sipping from glasses that winked indulgence in the warm sunshine.
“‘Non-Members Welcome’,” he read. ” Mercy, you are driving home. I could do with a drinking a beer alongside the right sort of people.”
Mercy mutely accepted his decision. Alongside the customary resignation to complying with is wishes, there was a glimmer of optimism within her. If he had a few beers, he might fall asleep and leave her be. The chore of driving home was a small price to pay for a temporary moment of respite. Besides, there was no need to antagonise him any further; his envy of the rich people with their drinks on the terrace and their boats was bubbling under the surface.
The path ran out alongside the creek. The refined walkways of the marina gave way to ramshackle fences and jetties being swallowed by the deep mud. Brackish water was creeping its way into the marsh as the tide came in, inching past the skeletons of long forgotten boats. A family were making their raucous way along the narrow path, travelling in the opposite direction. Mercy could hear his irritated puffs from far behind her. Childish racket was one of his least favourite things.
“Take this path,” he growled.
She saw the thin worn line leading out onto the marshes. It led over a plank bridge and further out over the stunted plants and channels of deep mud. He led them now, barging past her as she crossed one of the narrow bridges. Mercy wobbled but maintained her balance, deciding not to mention the increasing rush of the water, slowly filling the inlets and closing around them.
Once they reached the river, Mercy stopped in awe. The flow of the tide, the cryptic patterns of the eddies and the currents, stirred envy within her very core. Meanwhile, he glowered at the swirling, brown river.
“This is rubbish,” he said. “Time for a beer.”
They turned and discovered that the route back was largely covered by water. Both moved quickly, heading back towards the safety of the sea wall and its elevated footpath. Merey tried hard to pick out the simple footbridges whereas he splashed and wallowed through the inlets.
With just one bridge to go, Mercy was halted by a yell. She turned and looked back to see him staggering in a deeper channel. The water was up to his chest, then his fitful thrashing caused him to sink further into the marsh. The tide flowed around his chin now. Merey watched, dispassionate, as the water surged still further until it was almost at his mouth.
“Mercy!” he cried. His voice was hoarse and his eyes wide with terror. She watched some more, remaining rooted to the spot. He ordered her to help, bellowing a curse that was filled with threat and profanity. Yelling it caused him to splutter and his curse dissolved into nothing more than him spitting out water.
Mercy carefully negotiated the last bridge. Once she was safely on the sea wall, she turned to see him. His head was tipped back and his face pointed towards the sky. The water lapped around his ears. She decided to return to the marina and to explain about the terrible accident which had just occurred.
“Mercy!” he screamed at the sky.
She heard the word for the final time. This time, she did not shudder. She was with the bird now, stretching her wings and singing of her freedom.
A companion story to this one, based on the narrative oof the tides, can be found here: https://stephenleatherdaleauthor.wordpress.com/2022/07/29/beneath-the-surface/
Estuary Tales 