Oh these pensive days! At the end of them, if there is an end, there is only the absence of thought. Every strand of reasoning and every hue of emotion has fled and maybe not much is remembered, the way it is when a song is over. The mind moves like the sea, sometimes churning and frothing, other times calm... only the sea is greater.
But there are places, heron-haunted, where the air is big and fresh and blows through thoughts and moods and lifts them up, up, far from earth. Bee-buzzing, plant-perfumed places of tansy, snap-dragons, and sweet cicely.
And then there are minnows at the calm edge of the river, eating the crumbs of your lunch; a crow and a heron that sit together in silent, sheltered places, and fly off together up the length of the river, loudly protesting your interloping; the green light off a low-flying cormorant's wings; a congress of swans and gulls and ducks in session on the river stones where the current runs fast; the quick legs of spiders in their many autumn webs counting down the seconds until the frosts come crawling in.
Scotch pine, holly, oak, and ivy. And crisp September breezes against weak, honeyed light.
I have a love of lists, I treasure them. At school I studied, among other things, Old Irish poetry, and I think it was maybe this tradition's great tendency toward cataloguing and alliteration that first drew me in. A sentence might last a page, with all of the things it enumerates artfully arranged and the sounds sweeping on hypnotically with the reading of them until the richest tapestry has been created in the mind.
So though English does not allow for that kind of poetry, I hope by naming a few of the things I have found on my rambles, to bring them back and hold them up to you, each word a sort of charm, so that you might have a little of the feeling that you have been out walking where great birds sweep and croak.