Summer on Port Meadow

The river ran a ring of ice around my ankles as I stepped out of the thick air and onto the spiky soil of the riverbed. On the far side, the plane of Port Meadow maintained a fair amount of green, woven with the yellow of desiccated grass stems. Beyond, the trees had different shades, slightly dulled by the dust I sensed hanging between.
The summer dry spell had not yet reached its peak, but this family stroll up from our home in south Oxford had been continuously framed by dry leaves. The river along our route still seemed its usual deep self, but a rattle of stems accompanied every step.
When we got onto the path that runs along the Thames bank past Bossoms boatyard, with the Perch a way off to the left, we started to look for a shady spot for sandwiches and some water. Of course, everywhere was busy with other families, some with children in dinghies out on the gentle current. It was all very bright, chattery, a bit breathless.
Finally we found a spot, between bramble thickets. The sun blazed over the top of the spikes, a gale of light. It wasn’t long before the glittering of the sand below the glittering of the water drew our eyes down from the view. Socks and shoes to one side, we trod carefully down the steep, stony bank.
The sand under our toes was pleasantly gritty, interspersed with bigger pebbles and tangly strings of plant matter. We were now down on a level with the ducks and geese, wearing steel socks of cold. We looked up into the present generation of Binsey poplars where they leaned out over the water, their silhouettes against the clear sky freckled with the lighter colours of leaves’ undersides.
The sky’s blue just touched the tops of the ripples on the river, but away from where we stood the water kept its darkness, a shadow into which the small striped fish darted as we moved around.
After a while we decided to move on, and clambered up the bank, returning to the dustiness. As our feet were wet, we carried our shoes and socks over the crumbly soil of the path and onto the grass. It was close-cropped, wiry and springy. This, combined with the heat that met our soles at every step, gave the feeling of walking over the hide of some great animal resting by the river until evening.
We followed this pelt as far as we could, between thorny bushes, under trees, with intermittent views over Port Meadow to our right, but at last the grass gave out, and our way was too stony and cracked to continue barefoot. Shod again, we made our way on towards Godstow.

First published in "Oxford Magazine".