Colemere, Shropshire: One of a sentence of meres written by dying ice at the end of its age 10,000 years ago
Mere glitter dazzles between air and water, disrupting shadows of the surrounding woods, distracting the eye, hovering over occult secrets underwater. The outer world is sedated by bright autumn sunshine while under the surface is a troubled subconscious that gives the place the “discouragement”, the “unbreathing quiet” that Mary Webb attributed to the fictitious Sarn Mere in her novel Precious Bane.
Colemere is one of a sentence of meres written by dying ice at the end of its age 10,000 years ago. Down in the thick of the water are woods of weed haunted by carp, and fates with names such as “Jenny Greenteeth” that pull you in.
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