The Dog Days of Summer

The events of the past week are not for the light hearted, as we watch, with horror, the devastation of the ‘Big Easy.’ And listen with incredulous dismay to Bush’s fatuous comments that ‘everything will work out’.



The sun still burns the skin, but in the mornings a mist shrouds the rooftops and lingers over the river, a sure sign that the season is moving on. Walking past the church, I can see rose hips colouring the hedgerows, and clumps of gleaming black elderberries hang heavy.

Before anyone says’ How English’ I spot two fat Pakistani ladies in saris and bangles leaning on the church wall watching the pious inhabitant of the village leaving the Sunday service. Perhaps they are wondering, as I am, why English ladies of a certain type, have to talk in shrill twitters.

Down on the river the first slight changes are showing, green burns to gold and the trees drop yellow tokens, drifting with the current. The dog days of summer are with us, and heat settles over the river where the ducks rest in the shade of the reeds and bushes.

Even the geese seem content to float gently on the water, no longer threatening all comers. I find it impossible to single out the young - the chicks have grown to maturity, and there is a sense of peace. Next year, the nursery will re-open but until then it is quiet.




Some of the geese have over indulged, and I can see one who is nearly spherical, so top heavy that I fear he will topple over. When he and his companions make the great flight for the winter, I am betting he will be the first to land.

The river gives a mirror image to the trees that bend down to the water, producing endless green depths, sometimes a river carp will break the still surface, sending out slow ripples of movement.
The boys jump from the stone bridge, their bodies brown with the summer, egging each other on to try another jump. “Scallywags” says the lock keeper, and waves another boat through.

The mist burns off leaving the intense heat that the Romans attributed to Sirius the dog-star, but it’s illusion to call it summer. Along the riverbank splashes of harsh orange tell us to prepare for the winter.

A black coot shoots over the water, leaving a perfect silver V on the river. Next year they will be back here, to raise another family.
Perhaps they will be lucky enough to raise all their chicks.
I hope so.