A Topic of Leisure
The branching of the Arne River is by this hill where its voice grows adult from upstream child, no longer rippling and eager to overflow in this course or that, but gravity-bound for the north and a great flooding finish, a heavy waterfall managed by Verlag dam; were you here to see the ages change? That stone, wider than the rest, severs left from right channel, seems to halve the river while leaving it quite complete, all rush, boiling to be one again; there’s the damage that makes the flow more determined, cuts the deep bed; later on, past three dry fields and under a county bridge, it joins again, but never with this spirit. I watched birds spinning over a pool; I was waiting for wind to blow loose leaves or seeds to turn several times in that water question then head downstream, as everything does. And, listening to a little water over a few stones I imagined a running child, the same light step, or myself in the water, or the water in me; there is sure to be a common language through these things. I would see the ages change, too. Let someone drop a paper boat up by the mill, and we know nothing of the act, but wrapped here in the autumn chill see it float, white and half-capsized, around that bend, over the spill of tangled logs, into the brief frame this view allows – then around again and out of sight forever. So we could be delighted and puzzled for a while, imagine our own fingers bending paper into that shape, how would it feel to be so young, or young-intentioned, and with such faith that two people involved with the current, away downstream would see the boat and know it for a careful gift. Well, someone may yet do that. Or, we may have to be content with sticks and other wood debris that weather slips into the river, a slight downward-casting scene down from treetops, down from hill heights, down the slope of the land, down to the sea.
The same time of year, but back a century, I’m certain others hesitated here, slowed by the water’s random music or light in the woods, or an eddy of birds: any of a thousand motives made easy by an effortless afternoon, and company. How consistent we are – how likeable, full of cavalier melodies and well-worn stones that sit flat and hardly move. And curious answers, and painful revelations: I would like to load them all on the Arne and watch them drift soundlessly away, toward another who waits along the day, her silence my acceptance, yes, yes; and travel to far places and eyes reduced by age, the slow weight of accumulated current, the backward glances into clearings and evenings of such beauty, the water sources which never cease, the forward paces to who knows where all light upon the river as though I cast them there.
“Pond Life” by Rachel Turpin @ deviantart.com