Find a berry, pick it up
ON a bench by the bridge sits a man in a faded T-shirt, the hot hand of the sun on his neck and a long pole at his side. He is looking down the river. ‘John?’ He glances up, and looks me up and down. Then, seemingly having decided it’s me, he turns and wanders away up the towpath, the pole over his shoulder and a basket on his arm.
Along the side of Springfield Park, John and I walk one behind the other, allowing
