On the edge of a small highland town, taut golden reeds swayed lithely over wild lilies, while across the river and into the trees crept the amber remains of an autumn sky.
The bush smelt deep, clean, alive. Water was everywhere – seeping through my shoes, bleeding through a riverbank beyond the reeds. Still my sensibilities felt unmoved. It was as if I’d lived here a thousand years.
I surrendered, let it be, then looked again. I turned to a window in the water, to a place where the shore met the sky, where bare trees painted the fringeless shallows of a lonely pond. I felt as if I could wade in and drift silently, falling, rising, spinning.
I was privy to a story, a story of the moment, as old as old and as changeable as the highland wind.
The window soon vanished.
But I had seen.