Springs

A stillness of place, unseen undercurrent of energy.

Steps dip meadow down to a watery meander and then a sudden wide bubbling birthing.

Ripping gin clear, green laced waters rush off, suddenly called seaward like Tolkien Elves. 

Past the fallen moss dressed willow. Where the fae folk sit and sink their toes into the white sands under harvest moons.

A brief jostle under the narrowing of the old stone bridge,  plaints raised as they rush through. Then calm over the shallow ford,  past the slow cows, a home for milking.

Echoes of nature writers past around each bend. Of curious Roman feet and perhaps a milkmaid and her lover stealing passion under the secret keeping willow leaves.