Touch

He pokes a finger in the stream, into the tension
of his dark-faced, rushing reflection. 

Today is mum's birthday, less than a month after her death-day, and a few days from mother's day. She'd be 97. 

The illustrator for a commissioned children's poem I wrote, The Dirty River, emailed me to ask if I could send some pictures of the river in question. I did have a couple (which I have put on the photo-journal) but I decided today would be a good day to see if I could get something different, for my own sake as much as the project's. So after picking him up from after-school I drove there and we explored the place. I had wellies but his had been left in the house, so he got his shoes wet, of course. But we had fun, clambering up the muddy bank or just poking around, taking in that deep-shadowed genius loci.