Will Holder:
(Maybe she saw me first.) We passed – she and I – and rather than walk on, I stopped to see what had made her smile that made me stop: the paths, bordered by the cobbles where they met the embankment – hugged in place by a waterlogged bulge of roots – above ground, nor piped straight back up by bark, but in the mean of directions water will go of its own accord (with the help of gravity) – in a forty-five degree skirt, worn, smoothed and sanded–down to a deep mono-root by streams, seeping furrowing and collecting here and there in worn navels and caves on this slate-green-grey wood cliffside. (Perhaps it was the yellow snail).
