In The Fading Light Of Winter ...

We hear them before we see them.
Flown in from colder foreign climes to our misty, grey, milder climate. Geese. Canada Geese.
They have arrived. Dozens of them. On the lake and grazing the pasture.
They return here every year.
A line of them on the horizon against the grey blue of the sky.
Heads down, necks forward, intent on full bellies before nightfall.
A cacophony of noise on the lake. Honking and screeching. Goose language.
Then quiet.
They settle.
Peace reigns.

Reeds and river grasses, bleached and flattened in the water. Streams running down the hillside. More water than the earth can cope with. Finding its way into the lake in rivulets across the road.

One last look at the stark winter trees as drizzle sets in;  and the light dims.





We took a small detour.
Passing by the canal to Debdale Wharf where narrow boats spend the winter for cleaning and repairs.

We stop.
Peer over the bridge.
Two swans make their way downstream gliding silently.
Looking for a safe haven to rest and dream whatever swans dream of.

 

 



We take a short walk.

Meet some friendly little pigs foraging in a small woodland.

 

 

 

 

Down the lane I spot an old farmhouse.
Quietly disintegrating.
Ivy encrusted walls.
Rotting windows.
Two dogs manically barking in the yard. A handful of ducks in the garden.
The lights of a Christmas tree shining through the gloom.

My memory stirred; I know this place, I thought. I have been here before.
Then I recall; I bought some ducks from the farmer once; the ducks were unusual with pom-poms of feathers on their heads, topknots -  like old ladies hats at a wedding.
Eventually, their lives were cut short by a rogue fox.

That was long ago.

Two decades.
Disappeared into the mists of time.

We head for home.

Elaine