Where The Rivers Meet

The market was a frightening place for a little ‘un, full of legs and stalls and raucous calls. He’d shimmy his way through each Saturday morning, buy a Duck Loaf cooked to the edge of burnt, and then escape, down to the station at Tiviot Dale. A grand place for a small town. He’d head for the yellow rails, lean in so he could see all the way down to where the rivers met. That bit’s the Goyt, he’d tell himself; that bit the Tame; and here, where they join, is the Mersey. Except they all looked the same, the water hurling itself onwards like nothing else mattered.

Inspired by a conversation with Walter Brett, councillor for Reddish South

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s