Michael Bullock
The Weir
Only yesterday the green water pouring over the weir appeared to me the most beautiful substance on the face of the earth. How different today. Its glassy limpidity is clouded with streaks of red giving it the appearance, not of sunlit bottle-glass, but of an opaque and solid bloodstone. The specks of white froth, the colourless translucence of bubbles have a brownish, scumlike tinge. Ane the tall rushes bordering it on either side no longer stand straight and proud, but are bent, bowed and broken, hanging their heads as though in sorrow or shame.
A flock of birds flew over the weir at sunset and as they passed across it everything changed, mutiliated by the shadows of their wings.
Page(s) 89
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