Time on the river.

It had been a woesome week.
Depleted by a full body revolt brought on by bad food.
No paddling, surfing or sailing for days.

But today I was rewarded with time on the river.
A four-hour paddle in my new neoprene spring suit.
All against current: to rebuild stamina.

Early on, the turf farmers'  levees were all neat and clipped.
Then wildness arrived; weeping willows and shadey forest oaks.
A modern if sterile bridge spews faceless drivers overhead.

Short runs and bends, teal ducks, swallows and pelicans six.
The river; brown, swirling, chilled.
Men in caravans in camps established upon low banks.

Fatigue creeps up, drawing attention to technique.
More abdomen, less arms, twist and draw.
No orcas, sharks or high swells, just the beckoning blind depths.

We return to the site where budding artists paint Delft-style, the city opposite.
Upon brown sand banks once trod by the ancient Wonnarua people,  now by pet dogs on their weekly outings.
Sweet tiredness, a refreshing sponge down. A chocolatey reward.