July 15th

All seems still bar the

skittish skaters skirmishing

the surface ripples

---

the sound of people

muffled and lost in tall grass

shredded by the wild

entangling brambles

impenetrable thorn quilt

diminishing path

Not one, not two, but three haikus today. Two of them are a pair, one, the pond skater one, was originally meant to be stand alone, but if you read all three together, they complement each other and transition well, much like a walker leaving the relative peace of the pond and diving into the overgrown path to be torn by thorns and brambles.

So… The sun was threatening an appearance so I decided I’d go for a walk, I watched the pond skaters duelling on the surface of the big moor pond for a while, they would fly at each other, over the meniscus of the pond, wheeling elegantly and racing off in another direction to see off another adversary, they were all dancing, protecting the unmarked boundaries of their territory. It had been raining all day. D is away in Ireland, she would have been proud of me, as I listened intently. I heard the distinctive song of Chiff-Chaff and a Yellowhammer. Blackbirds and Wrens, their volume belying their tiny size. I crossed the stone bridge over the Flit, the water was running faster than normal, understandably due to the rain. It cascaded towards the faraway North sea, ultimately this little river would flow into the Ivel, then the Great Ouse then out into the flats of the Wash.

I walked the first moor, then thought I would tackle the second. Not via the main route, but by the little path, it was Sunday afternoon, which meant dog walkers. I’m normally personable, but I didn’t want to see anyone today. So I took the little path as hardly anyone bothers with it and the bird watching is better. I walked round the edge of the field of juvenile Alders, still stick thin but very tall, twice, sometimes three times taller than me. Even the grass was almost as tall as me. it should have given me fair warning. The path got more and more difficult to track, the wild had been reclaiming it. No one had battled through the thicket to clear it. It truly was a deer path now, no human had walked it in weeks it seemed. Back in March it was clear enough to run through it. But now, there were points I had to push through, through thistle and bramble. Nettles stung me. Thorns cut me. Snails ended up in my hair, passengers from the damp dark foliage.

I was lost. I’d lost the path. But I wasn’t phased. I was happy. There was a serenity in that. I tramped onwards, using one of the tributaries of the Flit as a marker to my right. I used my watch compass and having some idea of my position, negotiated myself out. I saw red brick between the trees, that meant civilisation. But I enjoyed my time in the grasslands. Getting lost when you are heading nowhere in particular has its own sweet reward.

Some photos from my adventure.

The Pond, Pond Skaters battle here.

Some thorny thistles blocking my path. Note they are around seven feet tall.

This used to be the path, now it’s a seething mass of impenetrable pain!