We sat on Sundays, high up by the roots of the knobbled beech tree, careful
not to get our Sunday best worse. The
castle hung in the distance, anchored by pristine lawns that glistened in the
early morning sun. That held the castle a
distant nirvana. Untouchable,unreachable. Shuttered blinds that guarded the Major’s
privacy.
We were more interested in what went
on below. The Moyola , it's honey browned waters burbling blindly over the
weir, fattened by the rains of late Autumn.
Gorged on leaves from falling foliage, the swirl and foam all working
together at the edge of the weir.
It's razor sharp edge awaiting. We watched with all the uneasiness of
Sunday,s service children mumbling prayers and humming hymns. Restless on uncomfortable
bums.
