Out in the fine haze, the silhouette of a cargo ship broods on the grey horizon. Swollen waters occlude the mud a foot below. Fragments of forest stick out from the marsh at odd angles.
Her horse lowers its head for a patch of rough grass. She watches it chew as the bloom of the cigarette follows an intake of air, illuminating her face. The damp air has saturated everything. She closes her eyes and exhales.
One day, she thinks, someone will come back for the thing aboard that ship. And then what will become of this beaten land? She has no desire to be here when it happens, but she does have an obligation.
She picks up the rifle beside her and swings it onto her shoulder, whistling her horse as she does.
Paddy Dobson
6th September 2020