Read the Winner of the Wild Muse Nature Writing Prize 2025
The magic of murmurations and life lived close to water
“In our age of individualism, of every-man-for-himself, a murmuration is a triumph of togetherness, of communication and cooperation.”
Over the coming months, I’ll be sharing selected essays from the Wild Muse Nature Writing Prize for you to read and linger with. My hope is that these pieces will offer beauty, craft, and a sense of companionship as we move toward opening the prize for 2026.
If you’re subscribed, you’ll be the first to hear about this year’s judge and when entries open.
This week, I’m delighted to share ‘Unmoored’, by Faye Keegan. This was the winning entry of the Wild Muse Nature Writing Prize 2025. When we announced the winner, Faye shared this in response:
“I’m honestly so shocked and honoured to have been awarded first place – thank you so much. My piece commemorates a very difficult, transformative, special moment in my life, and it feels so wonderful to have it recognised in this way.”
Our 2025 judge, Louise Buckley felt this was an assured and tightly-written piece, saying:
“It deftly weaves rich, sensory description with moving background details on how the author came to live in a narrowboat. I loved the contrast between their old life in London and their new life on the narrowboat and then the surprise announcement at the end. It's very accomplished and deserving of first place.”
Now, I invite you to immerse yourself in this stunning piece!
Unmoored
by Faye Keegan
I wake as the starlings are starting to gather. From the boat’s open side-hatch, I watch them, coffee-warm cup in hand: only a few still, no more than ten, twittering atop our nearest tree, on the other side of the canal. It’s a poplar, I think; one of three trees – a trio, like witches, or wishes – tall and pale and bare-branched but for the great ball of mistletoe dragging almost to the ground, and the birds who await their evening’s murmuration, trilling and leaping from bough to bough in giddy anticipation of the dance ahead.
It isn’t like me to sleep during the day, and I feel thick and bleary. I wonder if I’m getting ill; I’ve been tired a lot lately. In an attempt to clear my head, I lean further out of the hatch, the better to gulp the cool, fresh air, to let the crisp, cleansing breeze prickle the skin on my face to alertness. We are not-quite frozen in; the ice is gauze-thin, a melty glister shimmering in the afternoon light. As I lean, the boat gently rocks in the still-flowing water beneath it, and a spider-web of cracks splinter out across its surface. If we wanted to move on today we could, I think; we could easily break through this and cruise up the canal to find the next place we’ll call home – but we won’t. This spot is ours for the winter, and it’s a good one: beyond the trees, a field of frost-glittered marsh stretches out towards the wide blue sky. The warm coo of a wood pigeon carries through the air like a love-note. As it moves once more against the icy water, our boat creaks like a frog in song. I like it here.
At least I’m awake in time to see the murmuration – the mysterious and mesmerising spectacle of a thousand or more starlings weaving through the sky to form vast, shape-shifting clouds, which pulse and undulate as if animated by some supernatural force; as if the birds are all of one mind; as if by magic. It’s a smaller number of birds that congregate here, but it’s still an impressive display, and I particularly wanted to experience it this evening: it’s New Year’s Eve, the first my husband Nigel and I will spend here, on our narrowboat home. I’d like it to be tinged with magic.
I love the hatch thrown wide like this – the bold embrace of the elements, the sense of inviting nature inside. It’s a longstanding habit of mine since our old life in London, which seems like a thousand years ago now; the insidious breakdown in my mental health, the grim, difficult days that led to my doctor signing me off work, the strange, grey weeks of inertia that followed. Every morning, without fail, Nige would bring me a cup of coffee in bed, then do his best to make me laugh while he got ready for work. Once he’d gone I’d move to the cosy old armchair by our bedroom window, heaving open the sash to let the fresh air in. I’d sit there for hours, all day, sometimes, wrapped in a blanket, watching the rain. It was the closest thing we had to outside space in our little first-floor, rented flat. Luckily, it looked out onto our downstairs neighbours’ garden, which was enormous and lovely and home to two towering eucalyptus trees, so the view was always full of green. I began to realise just how drained and overwhelmed I’d been left by my long daily commute into the city’s centre; the noisy crowds, the dirty air, always running late, always panicking, heart pounding, sweat creeping slowly across my hairline on the too-full tube. That tiny oasis by the window felt like a first-step to remedying it, compounded, as I slowly regained my energy, by long park walks, where I’d watch the ducks and moorhens glide serenely over ponds, or place my hand on the bark of an ancient oak and feel connected to the still, solid earth.
As the weeks and months went by, I slowly began to recover, and with that recovery came a gradual realisation: we needed to get out of London. I yearned for expanse – for vast open spaces in shades of blue and green, for wide skies and far fields, with room to breathe and dream and believe again; a big, blank canvas on which to reimagine my life.
I take my coffee outside; for some reason I’m feeling slightly nauseous, and need more fresh air than even the hatch provides. Plus, from here I’ll have a better view of the murmuration. Blanket-wrapped, I settle into the bench built into the boat’s bow, and take it in: the clear sky, the glittering marsh, the water stretching out before me. I guess I got my wish.
In the autumn after my breakdown we left London for Oxford; a rented house on the city’s northern edge, just a few minutes’ walk from a view of patchwork fields, from shady woodland in which to stomp through golden leaves. I took deep breaths of the pure, fresh air, and let the countryside quiet seep into my bones. I walked, I read, I wrote. I got a new job at the bookshop in town. In the spring, I collected lost twigs still thick with tiny buds, and stuck them in jars of water on my desk to see their miniature flourishments slowly unfurl. In the summer, Nige convinced me to try kayaking, and I met our world anew, amazed at how different things seemed from this watery perspective. Despite its never-ceasing flow, there was a stillness on the river, a glimmering quality somewhere between the light and water that helped calm my racing thoughts and slow my breath. In the yellow shade of willow, I felt peace. I grew to love Oxford’s waterways, to paddle on, to walk beside; the Cherwell, the Thames, the canal. This last, in particular, seemed a shimmering, magical place to me, rich with possibility and adventure. I loved to see the narrowboat homes moored there. They embodied a sort of cosy bohemia I was instinctively drawn to, though by which I didn’t necessarily feel welcomed. There was a definite sense that this was a private world, possessed of secrets known only to those bold and brave enough to eschew the comforts of life on land. Its energy was electric; a quiet surface worn lightly by distinct undercurrents of daring, creativity, purpose. I wanted to know its secrets; I wanted to be brave. It made total sense, then, when – after eighteen months of trying and failing to get pregnant, and beginning to accept I might never be a mother – I decided I wanted our childfree life to be as vibrant and exciting as possible, and told Nige I thought we should buy a narrowboat. So we did.
That was nine months ago, and now here we are, living full time on the canal. I pull the blanket closer round my shoulders. The air is starting to chill, but I’ll hold out a little while longer. For the human spectator, murmurations are a waiting game; as darkness descends, and the cold sets in, it can begin to feel like the moment will never come, but it always does, eventually. There are a hundred breath-catching false starts, as small groups flutter into brief formation, then return to their perch. A rehearsal, perhaps? Maybe it’s their way of greeting the new birds, who, as the light slowly fades, are gliding through the sky to join them in ever increasing numbers, taking up position in the trees. From my seat in the bow I can hear the rhythmic beating of their wings as they swoop over-head; like rainfall on the boat’s steel roof, or ocean waves at night. It might be my favourite sound in the world. And a murmuration in full swing might be my favourite sight: the enormity of it, and the delicacy; the birds sweeping in perfect harmony through the air as if it were song. They look like music. There is an undeniable otherworldliness to their dance; something ethereal and mysterious. I can understand why the Ancient Romans believed murmurations reflected the mood of the gods; why augurs – priests responsible for interpreting the gods’ will – would study them closely in an attempt to uncover divine intentions. For a while, scientists theorised that starlings might use telepathy, or perhaps tap into some kind of unified consciousness, to create their murmuration, but that’s since been disproven. Rather, recent studies have shown that the birds’ hypnotic synchronicity is achieved by plain observation, aided by admittedly superior peripheral vision: each starling simply watches and follows the seven surrounding it, who in turn watch and follow the seven surrounding them, and on, and on, a pattern of acute awareness which ripples out to include the whole flock. You might think removing the mystery of the murmuration’s process robs it of its magic, but not for me; if anything I think it makes it even more extraordinary to behold. In our age of individualism, of every-man-for-himself, a murmuration is a triumph of togetherness, of communication and cooperation; a testament to what beauty might exist if we all just paid attention to each other. And actually, there is still a mystery about exactly why starlings murmurate: some have suggested they do it to ward off predators, others that it’s a way of conserving warmth, but both theories have their detractors. Scientists do all agree that starlings are highly intelligent, sociable birds, though. It is quite possible they just do it for joy.
My reverie is broken by the electric trill of my phone. It’s a message from Nige: ‘should I pick up fizz?’ and a miniature champagne bottle, cork popped. I smile; he doesn’t even like fizz. I message back: ‘sure, let’s do it!’ Then, with a single breathless shudder, the starlings finally leap forth from the trees, and the murmuration begins.
Tonight we’ll eat roast chicken and chocolate soufflé, then curl up close on our tiny sofa beside the stove’s warm glow, enjoying the cosy simplicity of our narrowboat home. After just one sip I’ll decide I don’t much fancy fizz actually, and Nige will roll his eyes good-naturedly and tease me for my new-found puritanism, then make us steaming mugs of peppermint tea to drink beneath blankets while we watch silly movies, whiling away the year’s final hours in the comfort and contentedness that comes from hearing each other laugh. At midnight we will throw open the hatch to find the moon and see fireworks flash on the edge of the horizon. Nige will wrap his arms around me, and I’ll feel hopeful, and happy, and calm. In three days we’ll discover I’m pregnant.
Thank you for being here with this essay. If you feel moved, a comment or a heart supports the wider Wild Muse community by helping this work find others who might need it.
About Faye
Faye grew up in the countryside near Oxford, where she spent much of her time roaming fields by the river, cultivating a love of landscape, literature, and emotional intensity.
She went on to study English Literature at Newcastle University, completing a PhD focused on mid-twentieth-century romance novels. Her research was discussed on BBC Radio 4’s Woman’s Hour in 2020.
Faye has spent over a decade working in bookshops, including Waterstones, Blackwell’s, and the London independent Heywood Hill, where she also worked as a personal bookseller and managed the shop’s online communications.
She now lives in the Cotswolds with her husband and daughter.
You can connect with Faye on Instagram here (@fayejkeegan).
This is stunning. I was with Faye, waiting for the starlings to leap. And what a happy ending!
That was a beautiful read.