The River Ouse that is; along whose banks linger hidden skeletons of railway lines — long now gone — although the whistle of the steam engine seems to drift across a shaded inlet occasionally, a dove-cote, prowed like an old dreadnought, brick built by some bloated landowning plutocrat, whose belly needed filling with the roasted captive doves at anytime of the day and night, further in here then lurks barges and brittle buildings, barely above the water-line, slowly, silently, deliquescing into the mud and ooze and the slime, a caged European Eagle owl occasionally mascoting a river-boat trip, seen, no sound though, green waving poplars, straight and tall and massive, once turned to exquisite match-wood now hiding the edges of the gravel pits, and multiple flora and fauna shouting and hiding and weaving.
Length: < 1 min