On the river levels were flat gleams of flood water.

The sky was grey, with glisten of silver here and there.

In Wilford churchyard the dahlias were sodden with rain--wet black-crimson balls.

No one was on the path that went along the green river meadow, along the elm-tree colonnade.
There was the faintest haze over the silvery-dark water and the green meadow-bank, and the elm-trees that were spangled with gold.

The river slid by in a body, utterly silent and swift, intertwining among itself like some subtle, complex creature.