The cold winds of late autumn descended upon Stratford yesterday. Braving the elements to stroll by the river, my eyesight collided with the vanishing dream of summer.
Yes, the ice has appeared, as if from nowhere, and birds that once could float upon the mirrored water now find their image on the hardened icy glass. Skiffs of snow ride like whitecaps upon the solid stream, while wild geese hang on to the pretense that they do not need to leave.
Our river bed has heard the call of Amiens from the tent up on the hill.
“Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;”
As You Like It (II, vii, 174-176)
Maybe not so unkind, yet enough to breed a discontent, as we look ahead to huddled walks mid blowing snows, and shivering toes.
“Now is the winter of our discontent . . .
And all the clouds that low'r'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.”
Richard The Third Act 1, scene 1, 1–4
Welcome, winter. What else can we say?
Living here in Stratford we know each season has its stay. And even if I do not like the cold, I will find its beauty here in months to come.
