Low tide at Faversham and the creek is a line of sludge with old Thames barges for decoration; paint peelings dandrift to the ground as I brush past, through the boatyards, the washed up dreams of East End landlubbers, then out onto the duck board path across the marshes. There are bright berries on the dirty bushes, lichens and river scum of surprising green for contrast shining in the slanted sun of late October. A fierce breeze blows from West to East bending the tall grasses as the creek fills with seawater. I catch uncomfortable shards of reflected light in the corners of my eyes as I stride along the high path, smelling the sea, my shadow for company.
I am out here again, searching.
A marsh harrier adjusts his wings to the flow of fast air, still apart from these angled maneuvers. For a split second I can see through his eye; a patch of waving stalks in sharp focus, the shivering heart of a water vole as he senses death, teeters on the edge whilst wings fold above. A dip, a dive, the extension of talons and pain. In a moment he is gone, wings flap once or twice as he finds a convenient perch for lunch. Something is over. But nothing much seems to have changed for me as I walk on, step after swinging step, into this landscape I am learning to love.
The tide has turned and water is flooding into the creek. There must be a moment when I am no longer walking along the edge of the creek but the edge of the country. The path just carries on: it is beside the creek. And now it is beside the sea.
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