The section of a journey

To begin where it feels right. To settle into a dip, cradled in the crest and to rely on the cessation of this prolongation of movement by settling where one rests. Travelling over the land and sitting down in the long grass ragged at the end of summer, the split-ends of random growth seeding; splayed out in the wind that paces back and forth. This restlessness plays out upon our faces the lids of our eyes folding back over to half blinker from the even day-light while our lips fold in dry like the folds of an envelope yet to be sealed. And with the movement of the winds it appears that we are talking or mumbling though the sound is wider and deeper spread across the fields; rising starkly into the rows of houses teepering up on the hill as if the reflectivity of each cut-out window, stung radiant and white in the facing sun, would be beckoned by degrees into the watery depths below. The slim line of a section of canal laced with the eclectic paint marks of a margin of house-boats buffeting one another from head to toe in the current.