On The Banks of the River Aller

On the Bank of the River Aller

1.
A pleasant, peaceful spot, the river swift-flowing-by, a slight icing of bubbles skating downstream, a protective huddle of old, multi-coloured houses across the river, to my left, screened behind a road of countryside trees, that somehow are a parade, and make the scene German. The sun has temporarily resigned to the rain; bulbous clouds, which, flowing effortlessly beyond me, show no sign of their inherent boredom. The grass ahead is rarely green and trodden to the grey earth's humility; away, by the turn of the river, two bare trees stand guard over a deserted cottage, and beyond, the fringes of a forest hide the horizon behind their skirts.


When I sat here, a small boy, muddy clogs in hand, came and sat nearby, and watched me with a grave intent. Three of his playmates have now joined him and they are chattering their supremely important matters in their incomprehensible tongue and lying on their bellies, watching a backwater's sloth.


Two disdainful chickens are beachcombing closer and closer to me; the children are paddling in the shallows.


I must get up and turn to the Barley bridge with its damaged stonework and I must go up to the old philosophical track to the road, and travel. I must move on again.


2.
On the Bank of the River Aller

A pleasant, peaceful spot,
the river swift-flowing-by,
a slight icing of bubbles skating downstream,
a protective huddle of old, multi-coloured houses
across the river, to my left,
screened behind a road of countryside trees,
that somehow are a parade,
and make the scene German.

The sun has temporarily resigned to the rain;
bulbous clouds, which, flowing effortlessly
beyond me, show no sign
of their inherent boredom.
The grass ahead is rarely green and trodden
to the grey earth's humility;
away, by the turn of the river,
two bare trees stand guard
over a deserted cottage,
and beyond, the fringes of a forest
hide the horizon behind their skirts.


When I sat here, a small boy,
muddy clogs in hand, came and sat nearby,
and watched me with a grave intent.
Three of his playmates have now joined him
and they are chattering their supremely
important matters in their incomprehensible
tongue and lying on their bellies,
watching a backwater's sloth.


Two disdainful chickens are beachcombing
closer and closer to me;
the children are paddling in the shallows.


I must get up and turn to the Barley bridge
with its damaged stonework and I must go up
to the old philosophical track to the road,
and travel. I must move on again.


Ursula/Friko

from THE SCRAPER'S DIARY, FRIDAY, MARCH 28, 1947

Posted over on Friko's Musings
1. Ursula's prose.
2. Line breaks by Glenn Buttkus