Walton Lake

The swaying never ceases for the tightly-knit family of the lake. Like a drunken but friendly group gathered around a pub piano, swaying to a familiar song, reminding them of good times and old pals, both departed but remain here still in the warmth of the group. The gentle wind guides their rhythm but this happy golden band needs no encouragement.

They stand and sway in the lake like a fishing part that has given up on guppies for the day and began early on the Glenfiddich to them the warm, instantaneous joy of this particular catch.

The still water reflects them and if this is a gathering then the mood was misjudged. It’s not a party at all, but a wake. It’s only now that I even notice that the clearing in the lake is caused by the sacrifice of their others, their brothers.

Their broken bodies and submerged heads line in huge piles to the front and the side of the hide where I sit.

The wind and the sway begin anew but it plays a different beat. As I sit under a dark, oppressing sky in the dark, oppressing hide, the witness to bird watching and more besides if my nostrils don’t deceive me. The dark mood within matches the new mood without.

I hadn’t even noticed the gathering of the straw brethren at the opening to my left. They are close enough to touch but this is the last thing I want to do. Their forms fill the slit window like bamboo bars, as they turn from a jolly pub crowd to a rigid phalanx. Even the invisible animals that must reside within this place know better than to try their limited patience.

They have tolerated me so long that as the low gunmetal coloured clouds draw in, I need no invitation to take my leave of the numberless straw and their watery home, their lake.

The hide’s wooden supports creak their approval as I gather my books and wits and begin to brave the boardwalk back to shore. I’m confident enough that this time I will be granted safe passage to the bank. This time.