I’ve been thinking recently about ponds. Or about one pond in particular. Let me describe it for you. It’s a pond in a field – an agricultural field, mostly wheat from memory; I remember the stickiness of brushing my hands through the corn heads as I walked the footpath across it during summer.
The pond was situated maybe ten minutes’ walk from my home, when I was growing up. It was just there, in the middle of the field, with no stream leading into it, no stream from it; there in the same way that stands of trees, or small copses, would be there. The farmer, you feel, would have happily filled it in, or cut them down, but it, they, were somehow protected.
The pond was of a decent size – a bit bigger, let’s say, than the garden of our house – and was surrounded by vegetation, trees and shrubs, that grew where the tractors and combines couldn’t reach, and formed a protective barrier, so that, from a distance, it might have looked rather like one of those copses or stands of trees, equally marooned in the sea of wheat. The difference being that the trees marked only themselves, whereas the trees around the pond at once hid it from view, and marked it presence. Continue reading