Freshwater mussels, coffee bean brown, cleaned by oyster catchers that jostle where the Wenning brunts the Lune. We gaze upstream at the Howgills, their wash of grey, river silver chased into the valley’s darkening green; hazels, willow trees blitzed by lightning, ochre banks where sand martins rifle in and sheep have bitten back the turf. […]
To access this content, you must be a subscriber to New Welsh Review. Subscribe today Existing subscribers, log in to view this content.