Wordless

River Frome, Bowbridge 22/10/25

Three of us dip in River this morning. The shared commitment gets us there, sabotaging the voices of comfort and warmth. Tired in body and brain. Cold up to the chest, skin reddening. Deep breath, head bowed. River’s post-rain yellowing of the day before faded now, water clearer. Bubble clusters riding the gentle current, each with its own personality, wheeling, popping, merging. Three trout, swift shadows moving amongst stones. Dipper on the left bank. As we dry off, she flies upriver, an exquisite geometry.

I stay for a while. Cold body warming, a signal crayfish claw bright red against the gravel bed, otter’s leftovers, under shimmering wavelets. Fallen willow leaf-kayaks in the water, landing around me on the bridge like dropped notes.

I don’t want to talk, or really know what I need to do now, but sounds begin to emerge, a wordless song. As the sounds come, something opens; the surrounding birdsong seems to louden, my own soundmaking seems to strengthen in conviction, finding a shape, following it. Chattering thoughts begin to quieten, presence rising instead; for a moment, kingfisher arrives, perches momentarily and darts back and away.

When I leave, the pace my feet find is slow, and silent; I feel for a moment a noiselessness in my own being, profoundly rare. To be alone, away from road and internet and human activity…and yet in full, chirping, sinuous, osmotic community.