JOOLES WHITEHEAD

Solstice Swimming

The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing.

— john keats, ‘La Belle Dame sans Merci’

The lake appears larger now in its winter garments –willows no longer long leaved and weeping; shrivelled sedge hibernating, dormant.

The morning is cold and the sky steely; the cabin shields us from December’s winds. In this liminal light, a russet fox snouts the field a trout ripples, observed by a heron, and the six rams crop the pasture. Stories are shared, the temperature taken, boots struggled over and head coverings adjusted. We have embraced this freedom in a time of little freedom, glad of this communion.

We are all determined, if not a little unhinged, as we mount the black pontoon, maintaining balance with rubber soles.

Some navigate the ladder, others, perhaps superstitious, slide from the side into waters of two degrees, seal-like.