The donkey followed me to the ford.

I pointed at the river’s grey colour, told him

how it ran orange back in the steelworks days

and the way trout and limestone turned rusty. 

 

I showed him that, even now, you could scrape a stone

and still disturb red oxide. 

 

The donkey remained silent, eyeing the depth of water.

I told him about the spring that used to bubble

in the lane, clear and cool. 

 

And still he stood. I couldn’t fathom his thoughts so,

hitching up my skirt, crossed the ford. 

 

Behind me a clatter then a splashing. I called out

The river is mostly recycled rain but he continued

upstream. And, though he’d told me nothing, his absence

was a cold draught, cold as the incessant water.