As I sit on the bench next to a little hump-backed bridge over the canal, something catches my eye. A goose feather flutters in the breeze. A long tapering wing feather, needing only a nick from a pen-knife to make it into a quill.
It's goose grey, that colour which is neither grey nor brown, but both. It is darker on the leading edge. I bring it home. I rarely bring finds home, but this feels so apt, so writerly, I must have it.