Across the meadow, dark pools lie waiting for other arms to scoop and glide. Beneath the bone-like twigs of the Heronry and the cracked red lifebelt ring, only fish breath breaks the surface. This water makes for a strange soup. It's mirror is broken and steamed into clouds and speckles of mildew. The reflection it keeps is ominous and dark, but the red ring sings out, snapped in two beneath it's real self, it's block letters spelling out words too broken to read.
I once lay back there, floating, to escape the heat of July and gazed up to follow the paths of jumbos heading into Heathrow. Beneath the curving spiral stack of weight suspended and slowing, I touched a stillness so empty, so blissfully serene, that brown fish came to flip lazily over my feet and the Heron's gaze sharpened to a pinpoint of desire.