"Today the misty hills are filled with water: the Dun runs brown round stones and over stones, or amber over gravel - a bleached branch stranded by spate beside a swaying foxglove rooted in stony splinters - loud it sounds, brimming the air with rush and splash and chatter, and over, under these an endless roar, foam-white at boulders damming, ramming froth in the sharp crevices abrupt. It hurries along the glen-foot past the dripping trees and the combed grasses and the beaded whins. The sounds of running water are its own, its nature's patient, pliant to all use, but not its voices, not its coloured shapes, may offer easy symbols, metaphors, or simply pleasure going its own way.