Waxing Lyrical - and not sanding down

The River Anglin

In the August shade I sit solitary against a tree trunk.

Summer into Autumn, roots bare and brown writhe like snakes upon solid brown earth on this Isle of L’Anglin.

When Winter comes tree roots will be submerged beneath the surging waters moving from higher to lower levels.

Tall poplars, their leaves mirrored in the looking glass create a meditational water garden wavering constantly and continuously.  Diamonds grow like deep dark glossy jewels on the surface of the water as ripples meet ripples, to and fro, from bank to bank.

Lilypads on the quieter side of this isle invite demoiselles and dragonflies to flit in a different garden of delight.

Willow weeps and wails, whilst a dozen ducks without drakes form a flotilla floating downstream.

Quiet voices, peaceful movement, disturb the potential silence of tranquillity as they prepare for the fête.

An artist’s heaven, a writer’s haven, a beautiful work of art, a public garden.   I long to stay.