I wake in the dawn to the sound of lapping water and the pungent scent of river mud. I stick my head out of the tent flap to watch the peaceful Thames. A hatch of midges dances, erratically catching the first rays of the sun. The grasses at eye level glisten with dew and silvered cobwebs join the green blades into a lethal network.
Lazily I roll over, yawn and stretch. A cacophony of birdsong separates into distinct sounds: trills, squeaks, coos of wood pigeons, chattering chaffinches, melodies in harmony and à capella airs.
The siren song of the river beats at my will until I squirm out of my sleeping bag and pull on yesterday’s clothes. Bare feet in cold, wet grass, then mud squidges between my toes as I push the dinghy with a rasping rattle until it floats. I clamber in.
The current takes hold and the boat drifts peacefully past pollarded willows, their stubby trunks supporting an effusion of shaving brush fronds.
A pair of swans glides past, with four cygnets in line astern. I spy a gaggle of fluffy baby moorhens under the bank with the triangles of their parents’ upturned tails nearby.
A silent shadow swoops above, neck tucked in, as the heron searches intently for its breakfast in the murky green water. I am content.
The Creative Bloomings prompt for today: “You’ve heard of Day Camp, Band Camp, “Fat” Camp and of course, Poet Camp. Create a “Camp” of your own and write about it. Get as descriptive as you can and don’t leave out the imagery!” My River Camp is a reblog from a couple of years ago, written from experience, as is usual with me – I loved solo camping as a child, and was lucky to have trusting parents!