Walking the river, reading Woolf. “Even now I have to watch the rooks beating up against the wind, which is high, and still I say to myself instinctively ‘what’s the phrase for that?’ and try to make more and more vivid the roughness of the air current and the tremor of the rook’s wing slicing as if the air were full of ridges and ripples and roughness. They rise and sink, up and down, as if the exercise rubbed and braced them like swimmers in rough water.” (A Writer’s Diary, 131) Drawn back by a swimmer seen on the bank a month ago. The memory of a tractor ploughing to the North, trailing gulls like a banner from a bi-plane. It’s Septimus, I said, home from the war and content.