The Language of Water | Marie MacSweeney

Centuries of wheels over water, child’s footsteps across the footbridge echo mine. Blennerville and Percy Place, the harbour, ships loaded and unloaded, gunshot and rebellion beside the canal, ricochet defacing Georgian glass and stone. Winter-fat river in Brecon Beacons struts through tavern doors, drowning these once dancing floors though it is St. David’s Day and …

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