bortha

Updated: May 20, 2025

Where Bortha hoarse, that loads the meads with sand, Rolls her red tide. Not that it was red when we passed, but electro purior. Through slaty hills whose sides are shagged with thorn, Where springs, in scattered tufts, the dark green corn, Towers wood-girt Harden far above the vale. And very dark green, almost blue, was the corn in September, 1888.

Andrew Lang - Angling Sketches