Gold on the River

Gold on the river, as the season changes and the colours have lost that vibrant promise, but all the same, every last day that holds off winter’s grip, is to be enjoyed. Mild enough, although the river is running full, and the trippers' boats have gone.
The water pounds through the weir at full pelt, frothing to a white cream and eddies and swirls in restless patterns. Muddy and full, the river reflects October skies, as the last leaves fall, floating away in a convoy of gold.


(Iffley Lock)


Now you can see the skeleton outlines of the trees along the river bank, no longer hidden in green, leaving a faint haze of beige and brown. The summer people are gone, leaving a fisherman, huddled on the path, wrapped in blankets and thankful for the peace, no longer tormented by small children feeding the geese, who always scream when the birds get too hopeful.



Most of the geese have gone now, only a handful parade the river, content to cluck gently, gone are the screaming displays of bravado, and the claiming of territory. No sign of the swans either, who used to assert their authority at intervals by staging rather spectacular displays of beating up the river, giving everyone the chance to admire their impressive wing span.

When our pair of swans are feeling especially belligerent, they float alongside the towpath, hissing theatrically at the walkers; it’s best not to take their insults too personal. I used to take revenge, by refusing to feed them, but I admit to softening up when I saw them create a perfect heart shape, bending long necks in submission.



Summer’s peace has gone, even the willow tree that bends down to the river, no longer hangs in graceful ribbons, as the wind tosses them into tangles, destroying their oriental tranquillity. Instead, the ground is covered in layers of big gold leaves, that rustle and hustle as you walk through them, just asking to be kicked and shuffled in.

When it frosts over, leaving the banks stiff and icy, I’ll bring some food down, just to make sure the ducks are all right.
Quiet now on the river, with short days of sepia brown and speckled skies of blue and grey. It’s beautiful.