Just meandering. It is how I like to be. Nothing yet to focus upon, just spending a lazy afternoon in the sun. It is hot. I like that. My feet take me down the riverbank to the water’s edge, into the river.

Flying things buzz at me in my idleness, but if I were to bother with them they would only be encouraged to pester me. I think they like my sweat but I am standing in this cool, cool river and have no need to sweat. In this summertime the water burbles slowly, intent upon its task of carrying this river to the sea. Over by the blackthorn I can see a girl lying. She is pretty this girl, almost as pretty as an angel. Her hair is golden and her eyes blue. I lust after such angels as this. They come by once in a while, and I am waiting, waiting for them.

She holds a boy. She holds him tight. A dark-haired boy, he is as ugly as a wart-encrusted troll. They have their intentions. I have my intentions. I need to be just a shade closer to this unseeing pair I leave the cool of the water and stand with my head above the riverbank.. Watching is what I do; watching and after things. This afternoon will be good watching. There will be good after things.

The footpath is the other side of the hedge. The troll and my angel roll. They scrabble at each other. I see bodies. These two do not look to the river, they are too involved to see what might lurk on the riverbank, what might emerge from the river. The troll holds the fair maiden in both his ugly claws.. The beautiful, beautiful angel gasps, groans and arches her back. I stand still and watch.

These water meadows are so familiar. I know every fold, every bit of brush, every mound, every smooth and welcoming hollow. As a sentinel above this curvaceous landform stands the church tower. A Saxon tower, it is round and upright. It is erect and firm and strong. It sounds of time and it sounds of bells and it sounds of dominance. It sounds better than the pub. I do not like the pub. There is too much noise, it is smelly and foul and surrounded by cars.

This couple, angel and troll, are still there. It is time for me to make my move. This is the best bit. This is where I get most satisfaction. It is likely to frighten them. I do have that effect, and I like it. This is what really turns me on. To quietly sidle up upon them in the fading of the evening light, or to accost them fast and fiercely in the heat of the day, a shadow bearing down on them with the strength of the sun behind it, now that really does it for me.

Then there are the nights. The nights are good, at their best when there is a half moon. Then there are silver shadows over the meadow and silver shadows over entwinings and silver shadows over my intentions. Then, in the silver shadows, it is not so dark that I cannot see, but it is not too bright to reveal me in full view.

Today the buttercups are the most beautiful of yellows. The buttercups wave at me kindly in this tease of breeze. I would like to wave back. But there are too many buttercups, and even I do not have that much time. I will be on my way, and the buttercups will be trodden and the yellow of the buttercups will be crushed and they will be broken buttercups.

I move.

I must reveal myself.

The beautiful siren hears my approach and starts to her feet with a cry of alarm, covering herself with her hands. Her eyes are wide and her mouth drawn back in a rictus of alarm.. This is the real orgasm of fear.

The troll makes to face me, but he is powerless. He sees in me a strength that he does not possess and will never possess. He is afraid, very afraid.

This angel is no angel now. She is a sodden bag. Her straw coloured hair sticks flatly to her body. I notice such intimates; they matter to me.

The troll has grabbed the fallen angel, the fearful angel, and is dragging her and his clothes away from me. But I am close – oh so close. My breath is in their nostrils. I smell their sweat, their fear. This is my moment, they are mine for the taking. I open my mouth and roar in a paroxysm of fulfilment as my pent up emotion overwhelms me.

Terrified they squeeze, half naked through the hedge and onto the footpath.

I hear the troll speak “That were a fucking Cow what bellowed at us,” he says, “It’s criminal.”

“There ought t’ be a soddin’ law against fucking cows,” says that which was my angel, my very, very fallen angel

I ruminate.