Wet

Muddied waters flow with scant regard for established channels through Red Rise, trunks rise from their own individual tiny islands in their own inland sea. Every gully, every depression is now submerged, some filled with leafs giving a false indication of their depth, a formidable landscape to traverse; even in stout foot ware any route is treacherous as a wrongly placed foot will attest too. My boots now heavy with water, my trousers wet to the knee are testament to this. The surge of water pushes on, scouring and depositing, removing and replacing, an expression of our world in motion and the fluidity of nature; the site of my recent fire now gone, buried by a meter or so of racing torrent. The freedom afforded by my boots, which can get no wetter, on the course I choose is liberating; cold, wet and liberating.