Snow Bound

 

Snow muffles the sounds of a crisp February day. The low winter sun paints long shadows on its clean white canvas. Thawing tawny branches. Warming my back, as I take my daily lockdown walk.

My boots scrunch on the loose powder beneath them. They leave a straggle of compacted imprints, from their cleated soles, as I pick my way across the shifting surface. The sensation evokes thoughts of clambering ashore barefoot, from the dinghy, across the soft sands of warm summer shores.

Before me, wind and sun have cleared the white cloak from the battlements of Upnor Castle. The pale brick inlaid injunction, for 'No Vessel to Anchor,' stands out clear against the ruddy London Brick of the sea wall. Marking the spot where the gunpowder magasine stood in Nelson's day.

Amid the oak wood, to seaward of the castle, the snow lies deep. Racing dinghies hibernate. Their winter-hardy crews confined to their homes by Social Distancing and travel restriction requirements -  as human kind's battle, against its hidden virus foe, enters a second year.

Boats lie untended on their moorings. . . .

. . . . or on the hard. Paid fleeting visits by owners out on daily exercise - or not visited atall. The annual spring rites, of preparation for the season ahead, suspended. 

Tantalising hopes of a 'Great British Summer' (with its tacit acknowledgement that routine cross border travel is unlikely in 2021 - and conceivably beyond) are thrown out by Government Ministers. Then contradicted. In truth, nobody knows when we will be able to turn the tide on the virus - or what sacrifices may be necessary to do so.

Beneath the snowy hillside, black hulled lighters lie moored patiently, jostled by the making tide. Wavelets chiming like gong strokes on their empty steel sides.

A diminutive tug plucks one from its mooring. Easing its flat beveled bow out into the tide and letting the current do the work of carrying it out into the channel.

The leisure craft look on. Wondering what the future holds. Snow bound.