An Afternoon with Bulrushes

I thought of Wordsworth as I took time to stand and gaze,

Gaze at a lake: midwinter dead,

Or so I thought.

Drained by Authorities: “this lake’s too dangerous for girls and boys” they said,

But it has regained some life for which it fought.

I stood under an azure sky as the cold did bite

Sun reflected on immaculate ice, as it shone through shafts of light.

There were no feathered ducks or flapping fish for me to greet

The air hung still, as I gently took my seat.

Giant Bulrushes have invaded here:

Parallel and pencil-like they stand upright

Groomed like soldiers, they survey the surrounding site.

A breeze arrives that plucks their fluffy clocks

And the seeds dance gracefully on air before they dock

A soft but intricate ballet begins:

And now great bundles of white fluff ascend and float,

Carried on invisible cushions all about,

Choreographed by nature’s unseen sprites

Whisked to welcoming places by sacred flight.

In the wings I watch this mesmerising show

The whole stage is alive with soft and drifting ‘snow’,

Against the backdrop of unadorned forest branches

Static, silent, in shafted sun that winter blanches

Suddenly I return to the world of manic man

To spy four planes against the sky of blue

They give hope of travel in our controlled domain

To float, and fly in this sky of cerulean hue.

I, too, wish to climb and discover far off places:

Tango a little more and dream of carefree spaces.

Let me glide with you, tiny bulrush seed

Link me in to your natural need

Take me on your unknown path

Then bring me safely back to earth.

Lynn Lyon

10 January 2021 during one of the 'covid' lockdowns