Storm in a Teacup

How musical are the place names on the tidal water of Dart. Tuckenhay and Greenway, Stoke Gabriel and Dittisham, Sharpham and Duncannon—a chime of bells to the native ear that knows them. Today autumn rainbows burnt low on the ferny hills and set their russet flashing. Then hailstorms churned the river into a flurry and swept seaward under a grey cowl. They came with a rush of wind, that brought scarlet leaves from the wild cherry and gold dust from the larch; but soon the air cleared and the sun returned, while the silver fret of the river’s face grew calm again to mirror far-off things. Easterly the red earth arched low on the blue sky; west spread cobweb-grey orchards, their leaves fallen, their last of apples still twinkling—topaz and ruby—among the lichens of their ancient boughs. Then broad, oaken hangers met the beech scrub and the pale oak foliage was as a flame dancing above the red-hot fire of the beeches. Their conflagrations blazed along the tideway and their reflected colour poured down over the woods into the water.