The Nymph Of Hampstead Heath by Jo Zebedee
At night, it’s almost silent. Just the rustling of the leaves, and the odd yip of a fox. The bats fly low, close to the water, mopping up moths, skimming the air.
In the day, it’s different. Still quiet, still peaceful, but there are women in the pool of water. They tell me their secrets and sometimes, just sometimes, I listen very closely.
What sort of secrets?
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