LAKESIDE

LAKESIDE
As I sit by the side of this place of peace with only nature’s noise to ease the consciousness, easing into day dreams while all is still concealed in the twilight between the dawn and the first movements to clear the vision which I witness in the mind …

Unlike the streams that feed this body that hold no secrets when all can see how deep and unconcealed the clean and clear fast running rivers have become, even the sea has a shore, beach or cliff whose depth and height we know …

But here the morning mist lies over this dark mere of mystery, hiding all from the searching eye and only the gods of wind make a shiver on the surface, causing ripples that lick and lap the shingled shore clearing the veil of the all concealing clouds, that could be mistaken for the ghosts of long forgotten kings …

Exposing the mirror of all that borders this sacred repository of all offerings that lie in the unknown depths, showing the upside-down world of reflected trees, bushes, rocks and muddy banks, the keepers of the waters edge …

All the swords of kings with unwanted crowns and coronets cast into this bottomless bank vault, now covered with the peat from swollen streams, skimmed flat stones and all manner of dead things sunk into the sludge …

A pair of herons wading in the shallows to their favourite spot, come to fish for breakfast each day, now stand like garden statues, gazing past their own reflection to glance a flash exposing any morsel swimming by and spear with such precision, never a miss, never a miss …

While white throated dippers wait on rocks where the knitted streams speed their entry into the river, into the lake, they skim the surface then dive to catch their unsuspecting prey of many kinds according to the season, dipping and bobbing among the stones, bringing movement of the charming kind …

When snow bordering the feeder streams begins to melt, brave and unsuspecting souls even swim in these dark crystal waters unafraid and relishing a morning dip in the invigorating, cold and baptismal bathing of this northern loch or lake, unconcerned that they may meet the old otter wondering who has invaded his long held home, all aware of the pike well named after the pikes and staffs thrown likewise into the deep …

As the mist clears completely we see on the far bank two all night fishermen taking in their rods and packing all their gear, chairs and shelter pitched in case of rain to provide the midnight melodies of its pattering to lull them into sleep but for the tinkle of the warning bell on the line awakening them in the small hours of expectation to the catch they may have waited all night, to make it all worth while …

Wondering where does all this water go, and yet I only have to listen with care to differentiate between the inner sounds of tinnitus and the distant descending deluge giving away the secret of the fall to a further pool, fed by this mother mere and thence to the river feeding many a fenny and the fenlands beyond …

I can come here time after time and see a different scene in a different season and the picture painted by the lady, shows such varied visions to delight the eye with shapes and colour changes from spring to summer, autumn to winter and winter round to spring, and each season is different from the last of the same name in the never ending cycle of created colour changes …

Was that her arm I saw rising from the surface, in the middle of the mere, a half submerged log under the remnants of the fog, a leaping salmon or just a trick of the light brought on by wishful thinking and a remembrance of times past, in the remote past of another life, another time when I was here full of fear for another and hoping that he would last the night …

There are mainly pines in these northern climes and so there is a battle of the crows for the few nesting sites in the few remaining deciduous denizens on the edge of the deep, with their flapping black cloaks their croak and caw disturbing the peace it makes you wonder if you should call the police, but then who would settle such a dispute as the feathers fly? They must be left to their own court to carry on their courting as the strongest always wins in their high rise kingdom …

Seemingly inured to the presence of humans he struts his stuff along the bank in search of anything shiny as I bid ‘good morning Colonel!’ he takes no notice of my courtesy and unlike us who search for gold in mountain streams he is content with discarded bottle tops and silver sweet wrappings to line the bower for his lady. His black and white plumage gives him away and like so many in his and other of nature’s kingdoms mourns the death of a loved one for days with his cheerless clatter chatter, clatter chatter …

The Colonel does his best, but it irks the senses to see how much man made stuff is carelessly thrown away to pollute our beautiful green spaces, with no thought to the countryside code or how it will look the next time they venture in this direction. I allow myself my momentary sadness as I mourn such inconsideration and resolve to return to my morning prayer and meditation …

Oh! The sun, the sun brings to mind, ‘all is not gold that glitters’ as the whole surface of the lake sparkles like the grandest cloth of gold set with ripples and cascades of precious diamonds, who needs more …

Other jewels along the banks snug in the soft grasses and mosses, better than any full garden trug, and others of the same bright hue, but taller, nod their heads in the breeze that rises at this time on most mornings adding yellow to the gathering glory of the daffs and nothing prim about the tiny roses that multiply and multiply and multiply …

Rowan red berries are all but gone now having fed the hungry ones on the wing over a hard winter, but the blossoms begin to add their touches and tints of white through palest pink on trees and bushes that surround the shores and sloping hedgerows that lead down to this amazing all too sacred space …

I say sacred, and in all reverence mean it with all my heart as these places, which are repeated all over the world, are here on purpose having been designed by the great architect to accommodate so many aspects of the Natural World. These lakeside places are truly magical not to say mystical, if you only take the time to look, to witness and contribute your own vibrations and share your visions with the world when you become the true lakeside visionary …

Of course there are other times that course through the calendar and invoke such changes as man can only try to emulate, but never completely compete with and hope to win any such competition. Such beauty is beyond us, despite our efforts to control such an independent as nature itself. In truth we can only successfully control and change ourselves and therein lies the answer to everything …

But then the question comes: does anything need change from its natural state? Indeed as the sage said, stand on the lakeside and you will see: only us, only us, only us …
© David Tenneson –2018

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About David

Devonian writer
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