Time and Ties

TIME AND TIES

The daffodils are early this year. They sway in unison on the grassy river bank like a bunch of energetic yellow teenagers at a pop concert. There are more this year; last spring there were twelve; now they’ve expanded to sixteen. Some lost during the harsh winter, some new replacements to swell the numbers. Such is the way of nature.

         Great expanses of fluffy cloud reflect on the glassy surface of the water. The brightness of the sky contrasting with the dark shadows of the trees as their mirror images ripple and dance on the lively currents. Lightness and dark, the moods of life, the pattern of existence. Good times, bad times, the passage of time adding to and taking from our precarious families. Life like the river, sometimes drifting languidly, other times racing turbulently through rapids, waterfalls, rising and falling through rains and droughts.

         Mother duck squawks loudly at her offspring; aware of the dangers her newly hatched must face. So cute, so small, so perfect, these seven little balls of fluff, waddling comically behind mum, eager to explore their new world. Enjoy them Mrs Mallard; turn around and they’ll be grown and off to find partners of their own. Will she feel the loss as humans do when their offspring fly the nest? Or do ducks just raise another family to replace them? Does there come a time when ducks are too old and frail to breed? What happens then? Do they sit and wait until they can take care of their grandducklings? Life is full of mysteries; the future unpredictable, yet ultimately faced alone.

         Fish swim lazily just under the surface, occasionally leaping from the water; rainbow scales glistening in the spring sunshine. They gather in groups like families at a wedding, mouths opening and closing as if discussing the latest scandal. Time to lay eggs soon, ensure their continuation, but not for them the empty heart when their brood swim off to waters new.

         A small boat tugs at its mooring rope. ‘Alice’ she’s called; the letters freshly painted in pillar-box red on her side. Named after a daughter maybe? A substitute for the child now far away with family of her own? Holding them at birth, their small hands clutching ours through childhood, it seems impossible to imagine life without them; a time when a stranger’s love takes over from ours. We adapt; we welcome the newcomer into our lives, but a mother’s love for her child is as eternal as the river’s currents.

         An elderly couple stop to rest on the bench by the waterside. The brass plaque on the seat glistens as the sun skulks from behind a cloud. A dedication to a loved one; a parent, a place to bring the grandchildren and relay happy memories from the past. And so the cycle continues, with no more chance of altering it than preventing the river flowing.