"Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind

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.

BULLYING

June 15, 2009

It is with great sadness that I am writing to tell you that yesterday I was witness to a display of bullying such as I have not seen before. It happened here in my delightful Stratford, as I was out for a pleasant Sunday afternoon stroll around Lake Victoria. (That, by the way, is the rather elaborate name for a widening of our Avon River.)

I was taking photos of the duck situation which I mentioned on my first post (a group of 15 or so ducks, only 2 of which were female), when suddenly I heard an uproarious commotion behind me. One of our cobs (male swans) was on the war path! With wings spread wide and flapping furiously he changed another cob. The battle was on. He is a very strong swan, and quickly overtook the other, biting him on the tail end. I was relieved when the victim made his getaway. Head low to the ground in a menacing posture, with anger apparently unabated, the cob tackled the next living thing to cross his path, another swan who, fortunately being more agile than he, quickly fled the scene.



His vexation spent, he huffed and puffed and fluffed his wings, taking some time to regain his composure. When I passed by later, all was peaceful. It reminded me a little of the bard's famous quote.

“Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” William Shakespeare Macbeth Act 5 Scene 5



My Stratford is indeed a place of unfolding drama.