The Swollen River

On the night of Thursday 15th December the winds and rain of Storm Joachim caused the waters of the river to rise.

No sign of the weir!

The path from the bridge is under water.

By a hill top deviation the path could be accessed.

One can normally walk here though I think it is private.

The water on the path allowed access to another footpath going uphill.

Within two days the waters had subsided.

I am a leaf

A leaf tells of an adventure downstream

I am a leaf floating on the current.

Other leaves float alongside me.

We float separately but some are nearer than others.

Some move faster and overtake me.

I take my time.

I move faster than others,

making quicker progress to reach those who have passed me by.

We’re heading towards the sea, a very long journey.

However, I know not where I am destined

as many of us will reach a different end.

From time to time another leaf falls from a tree and joins us.

Trees were our birthplace

where last Spring we leafed into bright green clothing,

vivid, vibrant, rustling, fluttering in the breezes.

But as Autumn arrived we changed our apparel,

yellow, orange, red, brown, as trees discarded us.

Very few of us will meet the mighty ocean.

Most will be pummelled into the river bank mud

to disintegrate and be transformed into river sediment.

The rain, snow and ice could batter us to death before we’ve achieved our ageing process.

Some of us are in better shape than others.

Some of us look quite elegant and beautiful floating in style.

Others seem to be clutching at the surface of the water with leafy tenacity. 

Others have already drowned and lie at the bottom of the river in swathes.

It does not matter how we present ourselves in life.

We all have the same fate.

We all look the same once we have perished.

We journey on to enjoy the view and as we gently drift,

look down into depths of unknown territory, darkness and murky blackness,

to study the reflections of the trees who still cling onto fellow friends.

Some trees never let our cousins fall from their symbiosis remaining evergreen.

We though are free, abandoned, rejected, call it what you will.

We are made to endure a journey – an adventure downstream.

We may be lucky, we may suffer.

We accept our fate, for now we are gladly carried to what we will become.

To marvel at the water's edge

More frequently do I arrive at the river

to marvel at the water’s edge,

to walk against the current, or to walk with the flow,

to sit on a rock contemplating the wondrous day,

to hear burbling,

to meditate how deep reflections of trees are

with upside-down trunks playing trickery,

causing my mind to think that the course of water runs so deep,

when in reality

the river bed is not much more than a metre below the surface

on which leaves float,

where here and there

a surprise splash of frog or fish breaks the quiet surface tension

between wetness and air.

Towards the evening sun of October

look up high

to the bright blue sky and watch a distant plane paint its path,

look down low

to see the ball of heat reflected with sparkling, twinkling, diamante rays.

A small breeze buffets newly grown poplar shoots arising from old trunks cut down last Autumn before Winter 
to make way for Spring growth.

Passers by with dogs,

elderly arm in arm,

young in a different embrace,

family scenes,

solitary ones,

all enjoy pleasure from this garden.

I alone, learn to be alone, walk alone at my own speed,

having to wait for no one else but only me alone in my world,

not lonely,

yet sense aloneness

as I frequently arrive at the river to marvel at the water’s edge.

Evp

October 2011