BROCCOLI
Slow and easy, that’s how the water under the bridge flowed. A gentle meandering around rocks. The passing of the occasional sluggish twig or leaf had the same attitude; there was no need for haste. This bridge, this stream, was their favourite place. There was a breeze. From the north carrying the chill of faraway ice that demanded at least a thick pullover even though there was heat from a bright sun. But they could linger, they were zipped up tightly enough to fight off the cold. Coming up to ten-years-old they were, the two boys swinging in unison on the wooden rail of the wooden footbridge spanning the wide stream. At their feet a bulging bag. Both wearing the same bright blue fleece, the same black jeans and the same white crossovers. Not speaking, dreaming, mesmerised as they stared through the water wishing they’d brought their rods. But no time for fishing they had orders accompanied by the wo...