Trent Valley

Quietly quixotic, the small boats which collect within the distant sailing club feebly establish the distinct irregularity of grandeur. They sit between the train tracks over the stone bridge in the direction of the rising sun, and the silent cooling towers still elected to shadow- both manifestly concrete, yet conspicuously redolent of nature’s latterly empty essence.

The water laps at the boats and the ripples stretch, and die, as though innately resolving the absence of calm within the greater expanse. The sky is beautiful and vast; pink reflects in the stillness of the water, the extrinsic grey of yesterday’s storm concealing a submerged exhibit of asphyxiation in dapples and serenity. Old liquid seeps into new crevices, displacing nests, and burrows, and decaying fur. A breeze disturbs the surface, but brings with it no woodland debris. A scattering of ripples, fish or stifled birds, breaks the silence, momentarily; the encroaching silhouette of damaged bark against the early light is coevally reassuring.

The sky is still beautiful as the sun grows brighter and starts to reflect harshly in the water’s anomalous tranquillity. Calming, momentous. The man takes another sip of tea as the knocking from the boot of his car penetrates the morning.


2 thoughts on “Trent Valley

  1. Interesting how the trains are almost an afterthought here, truly anomalous. Surely the poor bugger in the boot just wants a spot. Have you conquered your fear of pigeons and tins?


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