Golden Hour

Like a sepia picture the Riverside sits motionless, bathed in a golden brown light , majestic but as though holding its breath

Yesterday here an early autumnal scene. Trees still green with touches of yellow announcing summer’s demise.

Cormorants, swans, ducks calling, chasing, diving….. Living.

Early morning joggers, cyclists, dogs and their companions lined the paths, part of the fabric, jogging, cycling, walking, foraging…. Living

Boats gently bobbing waiting for owners to return. Some freshly painted and varnished, a life of adventure ahead. Others tired, worn also perhaps waiting for a final adventure or two, while others long forgotten.

Rowers embraced the new season pulling extra hard on oars to fight the cold with frost tinged lashes, seeing the changing landscape as if for the first time.

But today is different.

Today all colour has faded with the scene now bathed in a warmth of liquid gold . A ghostly white cloak shrouds the trees and forms an ethereal carpet above the water .

All is still. All is silent.

Yesterday’s daily life absent. Perhaps so spellbound by the scene before them daily life is momentarily forgotten.

Through the white shroud peak the boats, still moored, still part of this scene but now all equal with any signs of age unseen

On days when such mist descends, cushioned by early morning sun, for that short dazzling, magical time, trees shine, the air revives and restores and the water sings.