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XIII - Down by the Winter River

i see my river now, not warm and golden like the summer days, but a greyish green. she is lively in the winter months; the summer sends her into a sleepy stupor where she just meanders by, floating and sunbathing, her skin a golden and bronzed sheen. but in winter she seems to rush for the spring time. green grey and muddy with light brown curling leaves dusting her every now and again. she is deeper too, i imagine myself stepping in and it's already up to my knees on the slight step by the bank where fishermen would have stood and waited for their catch some time ago. the poplar trees which guard her are bare and naked, dark-looking and stark in contrast to the grey-white sky which in winter months is ever painted by one large, shapeless cloud. this cloud blankets the sky which rarely -but sometimes- manages to peak through the small gaps which the cloud has missed. it might be windy too, it probably is, and i see the poplars swaying, dropping twigs and their last few leaves, undressing for winter's embrace. the grass will have also changed colour, it is not green and lush and damp with a morning dew, but frosted and yellowing, boggy in some parts and when it rains a lot, the whole field floods and becomes a pond. it can be up to your knees then on land too, and it's so clear, ice blue. the river rages past, loud and bounding: breaking her banks is so liberating. running through the field-pond is liberating too, poppy races with me, (there are so many sniffs for her here) splash, splash, splash. laughter, cold wind bites my cheeks roughly, we all play together. the sun rises late, stretching out her grey-white and tepid warmth, she retires early around three, yawning, having barely warmed up at all. we light a fire, the log burner splashes out the heat opulently, after a while you can smell the metal overheating and at which point, we feed the fire no more.

(14th December 2013)