Floating

Today we return to Sychnant. Last time we were here it was alive with swallows gathering to fly south, youngsters practicing their skills as they skimmed - or dipped into - the water. Dragonflies flashed back and forth, emeralds and greens shimmering in the sun, and the hills were painted with the yellows and purples of gorse and heather. 

Today it’s very different. Colours are muted, though in general I’m surprised at just how much the autumn colour has developed over the last few days. Skies are heavy grey unlike the sparkling blue of September’s Indian summer. The swallows are long gone, as, it seems, are the dragonflies - I’d been hoping for one last chance to photograph them.  The skies seem empty, though I can hear birds sing. I spot a distant robin in a low tree, and catch the flight of what I think is a stonechat swooping down into the reeds, promptly disappearing from sight. 

But there is a wonderful calmness to the scene despite the sense of loss. I’m sitting on a rock beside the lake just listening to the stillness  - G has gone off walking in search of a new route, so for now I’m quite alone. For now, there are no dog walkers, no families out for weekend hikes; there aren’t even any ponies. There’s just the stillness of the air and of the water - reflecting perfectly the greyness of the skies. Islands of marshy vegetation seem to float on clouds, caught in a beautiful never-land - like me, floating between summer and autumn; regretting the passing of one but - gradually - embracing the arrival of the other.