The Spring

A tiny basin of shingle nestled between great exposed tree root, ice cold water as fresh as a new born bubbles through the pure Ashwell chalk to trickle gently past stepping stone and mighty willow.
   Sounds of children dragging cane handled nets through shallows in hope of stickleback and bird song from high in Ash. Millers-thumb hide under stone while mallard sift the gravel silt.
   Watercress beds engraved with moorhen path sway in current light while kingfisher watches from worn perch overhanging. The  pure water heads off to mill and quiet blackberry banks through lost allotments where food was grown to feed labourers families.
   Past duck lake on toward the mill pond, open wide water, home of eel and pike where long grasses edge the travelling stream. Church bells sound echos over the silent pool where dawn mist rises like ghosts.
   Willow hang from ancient banks casting shadows over the water surface and the faint sound of the cuckoo does travel from distant oak.