Drinking the Ouse

When I begin to write I usually do not have a clear idea of what I will produce, the work seems to reside within somewhere, needing me only to begin typing to pour itself out through my fingers. And so we find the first posts of this blog display a curious, yet unintentional, pro-Islamic stance. I had never considered myself a raving fan of Islam, but my curiosity drives me to seek out the best, the most unusual in everything others condemn.

And so to something new. This evening I was walking down by the river when I had a series of moments. I often have these moments, times when something poetic or spiritual, something hard to define, strikes my soul, usually an image, a scene. The river was quiet, silent in the dark of the night, the deep brown-black gloss of the water glimmering with the evenly spaced orange glowing spheres floating on its surface, reflections of the street lights lining the river path. Its beauty in the silence was the first to strike me. So empty, so at peace, in the cold and dark and muddiness of February. Winter's grip, still strong, kept all but a few locals returning home away.

I walked, passed by a couple of girls emanating music, hip hop, as if it came from within them. I listened as it continued, distant, yet distinct, as they crossed the bridge and continued along the opposite bank. I walked down to the waters edge, drawn close by the lights, the colours of the bridge changing in their mirror, red, pink, purple, and so on. Looking into the depths I drank in the light and watched the river live. Things, indistinct at first, thronged its surface. A thing, like a fish skeleton picked clean at first, until I discerned the darker parts of the shoe,  disguised by the dark of the river. struck by its strangeness I lingered, watching. More objects - floating bottles, discarded wrappers like little boats. A whole flotilla of human detritus. 

And then a friend. A tiny black cat trying to climb my legs as I turned. A strange encounter indeed. I wondered where he came from. A curious thing about cats, you can never tell how far they have come. They are always strangers, whether they live next door, or several miles away. Perhaps that is why I feel so comforted by them. A fellow stranger in the night.

All these images, strange but in some way powerful, distinct. As if the river had some essence of its own. Something of the Creator lingering on in the world entrusted to us. To keep watch, to succour us in our time of spiritual need perhaps. For we all need to seek beauty to feed the soul from time to time.