Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • They said there was going to be a drought, and so the heavens opened, and we were drenched...

    I walked today in the hills. Peaty water flooding down to the rivers. Silver grey rocks, water flowing over black as mascara, spooling into pools which boil like cinder toffee.

    Only Gerald Manley Hopkins puts it so much better, dammit. And every time I walk in the dales, and see a beck in spate, I think of his lines:

    This darksome burn, horseback brown,
    His rollrock highroad roaring down,
    In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
    Flutes and low to the lake falls home.

    A windpuff-bonnet of fáwn-fróth
    Turns and twindles over the broth
    Of a pool so pitchblack, féll-frówning,
    It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.