Thameside

Sitting under the shelter of an ancient Yew tree, watching raindrops flicking circles over the boiling brown winter-high river, blocks of dirty foam wrought asunder from the weir upstream. Cold winds carelessly scatter their patterns across the water. Drake Mallard shepherds his betrothed towards shelter by the bank, lone exotic Mandarin prospects out by the Eyot. An unexplained splash, a fish, a Grebe diving perhaps, or a halcyon glimpse of a Kingfisher? Wind whistles in the trees, but the source of the splash remains hidden.

Born beside the river, here is where I feel I really belong, even if my heart has been stolen by craggy mistresses of Cumbria. Born beside the river, wondering what it would feel to swim out in to the cold brown churning water and slip below it’s troubled surface, to reappear as some flotsam tangled up in the dipping branches of a willow downstream.

The Thames in calmer mood

Look not for me where people meet, but seek me in the lonely places, where the rain chills, the wind shivers and the mud grabs at your shoe. Walk quietly and listen well, for that rustle in the reeds may be me sliding by.

~ by @mmonyte on January 5, 2012.