“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it.
The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.
I am haunted by waters.”
“The day was fine, buzzards mewed overhead as they spiralled lazily in the warm air, and little dippers bowed to us from their rocky perches in the ever-widening streams.”
“For my money, if you walked into a workshop with a bamboo rod, asked who made it, and half a dozen people all said at once, “I split the cane,””I ran the beveler”, “I glued the splines, “I wrapped the guides”, and so on, you’d be holding a production rod. If, on the other hand, one guy puts down his coffee cup, turns down the radio, and says, “I did” then you’ve got a handmade rod, and I guess it doesn’t matter to me whether he used a plane, a beveler, or a pocket knife.”
“The river there is still startlingly clear, flowing smoothly in its weeds and gravel. Watercress and fountain moss and stoneworts are found in great abundance there, undulating in the choreography of its currents.”