The river and the fish, Gill Adams

A bright day. The midday sun was beginning to glint against the modern and old buildings lining the road. A moderate breeze ruffled the leaves of the mature trees that hung over the hard grey pavements whose surfaces were cracked in places where hot suns had damaged them. White clouds drifted across a denim blue sky. They say a sunny day lifts the spirits whilst a grey day will dampen those same uplifting thoughts. Even a sunny day is just a grey day for me now, I wandered somewhat aimlessly down the hill, passing the ancient grey stone church with its tower pointing to the sky. I cannot find solace or pleasure in its simple beauty as I did before. Wandering through a dull, same style housing estate at the bottom of the road, I realise this is near the river. Momentarily my mood changes. Will the river be fast or slow flowing? I don’t know. Should I even care? The dark mood returns, weighing on my mind. I reach the river where the tide is low. It is murky, awash with mud and silt from the bottom and the banks. The river moves sluggishly, despite a persistent breeze that has sprung up. Bits of rotten wood line the banks, from old buildings, maybe boats, just part of the floatsam and jetsam of a river. I see a bike, dumped, its wheels and handlebars twisted and bent lying half in the water and half embedded in the bank. It is like me, discarded, unloved. The modern iron bridge spanning the river is beginning to decay, the red rust coming through the black. The bridge is ugly, functional and underneath it lies a dark shadow where nothing can be seen. I am like the bridge. It to once had a use,but is now just unloved, even rejected by those who had wanted it there once. Discarded for a new model; prettier; younger, ;fresher. Him, a successful manager, her, ambitious, progressive, opportunistic. What hope do I have against her? A middle aged women whose youth has long since departed? This dark, bitter mood makes me weary, and I sit on the red brick wall that overlooks the river. I see the muddy banks on the other side falling to the river where nothing grows. This side of the bank is a grassy area above the mud where delicate pink flowers cling to the side. Behind me snow white hogweed growing towards the sky sway in the breeze. My attention is caught by a ripple in the sluggish water and then I see them. Seven fish, moving in unsion, on a journey. They glide majestically through the murky water and into the dark shadow under the bridge, where they can be seen no more as they swim to pastures new. After the fish have gone, I sit and sit on that wall for so long I can barely move from stiffness. The sun has gone in and the breeze has strengthened, sending shivers across my bare arms. I think of the fish again. Are they going upstream to a new life? Is this what I should to do? The tall sturdy hogweed behind me on the river bank, seem to nod their heads in agreement with my thoughts. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.