Down by the lake, the sun is hot on the back of my neck. When the light breeze blows across the rocks next to the waters edge, the chill of early spring can still be felt. The lake sweeps majestically round, filling my field of vision, curving in from the left in a wide arc, disappearing toward the ferry crossing on the other bank, in the distance on the right. Directly opposite, some two or three kilometres away, the onion shaped church spire and white buildings of a small village fade in the haze. The backdrop to the spectacle rising from the small town and in a 180° arc are the hills and mountains. Some of the smaller peaks are green with the rich colour of spring, others, higher still, have their dusting of snow, some yet higher, reflect their tenacious mantle of thick blue-white snow.
In the meadows between the swathes of forest are dotted cottages, even to the steep rocky edges they provide shelter for the mountain people, their presence marked with the occasional flash of reflected sunlight.
A swan drifts languidly by, lazily examining any movement hoping, in the demading way that swans have, for a piece of bread that will not come, pecking and trying each possible new mouthful gradually working her way along the stony bank.
The swell joyfully teases a small log in the opposite direction, bobbing and nudging the bank on its way to the collecting point of all detritus, partially submerged, waterlogged and showing its age. A noisy child who interrupted the peacefulness, is silenced as the swan upturns and searches the lake bed for unmissed treats. The ferry monotonously plies between banks, the only regularity in this random picture.
A duck makes her long approach gracefully disturbing the calm surface, waggling her tail contentedly, almost smugly, at the successful transition from air to water. Watching the ducks aeronautical alacrity is a patch of lichen, as ancient as the rock it clings to. Pale green circles etching the rocks at waters edge, defying all elemental encroachments, a mirror of its timeless heritage. It simply exists and survives for no other reason than that.
The angle of the sun throws into relief the strata towering hundreds of metres, breaking through the green dressing of the mountain opposite, exposing the crazy angles of prehistoric sea beds and the embedded bodies of long extinct animals. If they could wake, they would be surprised at the view from their new location.
More ducks arrive in coordinated formation, landing with a natural precision, noisily chattering, quacking and babbling their arrival to waiting comrades.
The child leaves, the impatience of the young, to seek new experience. Silence returns. Why is it that the most beautiful of life experiences are always left to second hand description. It seems that the more alone one is the more majestic the experience. This could distil to meaning that the best is experienced alone.
Suddenly the magic is gone. The arrival of new souls disturbing the tranquillity. Although the bank along the lakeside is large and empty, they seem to favour the place where I am sitting. Drawn like human magnets to a fellow soul, as if frightened and faithless in their own decisiveness.
I return my gaze to the lake and discover that the log has been disturbed on its journey, if only for a while, as it is retrieved to the bank and used as a plaything for three young, ingenious minds, their imagining a floating tree of magical powers. No longer condemned to the slow rotting, sinking and material redistribution of its millions of ancestors, at least not for now, its return to stardust is delayed – the universe must wait. The log is caught up in a rush of hope, and thoughts of rebirth flash through the decaying cells. But the need to see things afloat calls one child to throw the log back to the lake. Ah sweet surrender, it was destiny after all. Sad or glad, the log momentarily reflects on its relocation and slowly bobs its way back on its journey to eternity.
The back of my neck feels red.
The shrill staccato echo of a persistent coot echoes across the surface adding to the rising noise of human traffic.
It is time to leave.
Below the log, a flash of silver on a deep green background.
Copyright © 1999 Roger Grice – all rights reserved
