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Bristol , United Kingdom
I'm co-director of the Leaping Word Poetry Consultancy, which provides advice for poets on writing, editing and publishing, as well as qualified counselling support for those exploring personal issues in their work - https://theleapingword.com. My fifth poetry collection, Learning Finity, is now available from Indigo Dreams or directly from me.

Wednesday 6 February 2019

Spring is Coming

It looked like it was going to be a beautiful day. It was positively balmy when I opened the bedroom window to take a photo and I could almost see the rising sun, which means it's definitely on its return journey into summer. (Still had to lean a long way out, mind.) 

At Stapleton, the River Frome was much fuller and faster than it has been and looking decidedly mucky from all the snowmelt. Today the dog and I headed down the valley through Eastville Park.

This little waterway seems to go by the unromantic name of 'the second Fishponds brook'.

When we reached Eastville lake, my heart did a little jump. I don't think I've been there in fifty years. 

Not that we went there more than once or twice, for a picnic in the summer. 

I remember there being paddle boats for hire and a little cafe, and my father taught me about sticklebacks which we scooped up in a jam jar, brought with us for that purpose. 

It was very different today, but still familiar somehow. 

There were a couple of areas of thin ice on the lake, which were creating atmospheric patches of mist, but otherwise, it was springlike. 

Squirrels abounded in a literal sort of way. Ducks were frisking. And the trees and verges were full of long-tailed tits, blue tits, grey wagtails, pied wagtails, bullfinches, chaffinches ... and pigeons. 

Has she got any bread? ... Has she got any bread? ... Buggrit!

A heron turned up.

A cormorant shot up the lake and took off. Black-headed gulls made spectacular dives ...
... and then stood about on the ice a bit.

The lake is fed by the Frome and the two bodies of water are in close proximity

It's water bird heaven.

Back at the head of the lake, the heron was still in the same spot. Ted and I watched him gulp down a little fish - bet those stickles are uncomfortable! - and return to its perch ... 

... and then realised we'd spent far too long there and would be late picking up Son the Elder from his appointment. 

Cue a big fluster and hurry back through the woods ... 

... and across the bridge. 

But we won't leave it another fifty years to return. 

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