Dragonflies

I don't know what it is about rivers that make me feel a little thoughtful. If anyone tells me its because they are reflective I will throw something at them. No, maybe it's the way the water flows non stop like life itself, supporting a whole host of life forms as it makes its way to the sea. Sitting this afternoon on a small pebble beach after giving up trying to work in this heat, I was taken by the dragonflies in huge groups flitting over the surface of the water, landing on the smallest scraps of plant life, their only thoughts I suppose, procreation and food. A bit like Danny. After walking some way upstream in the shallows, I then hopped on to one of the large rubber rings I bought for the kids. With my hands and feet trailing in the cool water and my bum stuck in the middle so the water crept up to my chest, I floated silently back round the bend in the river towards where I left my towel and bag. A couple of vibrant blue dragonflies landed on my knee and through half closed eyes watched as other birds and fish came close, my motionless sprawl giving them confidence. Its funny when at times like these, with no other person in sight or sound, the trickling of the water the only background to the screeing call of the buzzards, where your mind takes you. Transported maybe thirty years, I thought of the rushing dark waters of the river Trent, and my brother and I, leaning against an old wall that divided the garden of a manor house we were working on in Nottinghamshire from the small lane that led to it. We were lime rendering the old outside walls, and as we finished an elevation in a day so as to have no joints, it meant a long day and it was about seven o'clock and we needed a break before the last push. The wall was only chest high, so we sat, chewing the fat about what we were going to do with our lives and sipping form a coke bottle whilst flicking stones into the river, when we heard the noise of a lorry roaring closer before pulling up nearby. Surprised that a lorry would even drive down this small lane off the beaten track, we decided that we didn't want our break interrupted by a lost driver asking for directions, so kept our heads down, certain he would ask at the manor. Both of us jumped though when a loud clattering sound followed by excitable voices and the crunching of boots on gravel made us more than curious. when the voices came so close that they were on the other side of the wall where we sat, I thought it time to take a peek. Standing up; I came face to face with a grinning miner, who with many of his colleagues was peeing up the wall. "Alright mate," he smiled before zipping up and turning towards the lorry. I stammered something which seemed to make many of the miners laugh as they made there way back, some with pick axe handles in their hands. These were the days of the miners strike, and I mused later on this group of men, who looked for all intents and purposes that they were on a jolly day out somewhere, mates together, instead of being embroiled in industrial strife.
Walking back home down the track, over shadowed with maize growing each side I noticed that the rubber ring started to deflate. Should I repair or replace it? Oh well, I have a few days to decide before the kids get here.

Martyn Walker is the author of Stopcock, available globally on Amazon