Curlew River

I watch the changing tides, the shifting rivulets and the seasonal falling reeds. I listen to the waders and hear the past. I look at grass formations and worm holes. I notice the play of light and the infinity of time. I see the interventions of men’s scud marks in the mud as boats draw across the dark, shiny sludge at low tide. 

And above all I am aware of the calling curlew, of drowned voices and sad refrains - not just from the past and Britten’s opera but of the present, as migrations of men and women cross the water.