Swan Song

It’s one of the last sticky swan-song days of summer. In the shade of the trees, with the rippling water live-streaming reflections through the willow leaves, it feels as if the day could go on for ever. Only the tell-tale flecks of yellow betray a different story. A jazz-striped dragonfly helicopters past and long-tailed tits giggle from above.

On the opposite side a couple, their child in a pushchair, stop by the river-bank. They are an audience not unnoticed by the apparently serene swans, who swerve across the water’s surface towards them. Anybody is worth investigation and this family performs as it should, producing a bag of bread to throw amongst the now sizeable throng of swans, geese and ducks. There’s an age-old custom, a craft not yet learnt by the youngster in the pushchair. He watches, detached, and tries to eat the bread himself when offered some to throw into the melee. These are townie birds, savvy to every feeding opportunity. They eye you up and, with a strong flick of dark feet in the soupy green water, flock around you or turn away. There’s a civilised swan-scrum, the discordant honk of a hooded Canada goose, as these riparian pirates circle, trying to guess where the next crumbs will land.

Later, I walk down to the bank with an offering of sunflower seeds. The first swan to reach me looks perplexed, affronted. It can’t, or won’t, pick up seeds sprinkled on the bank but makes to snatch food from my fingers. Not wishing to get nipped, I change tactic, holding the plastic box firmly and leaning down to beak level. Two swans quickly empty the container, solid orange-pink bills hitting the base with a clunk and withdrawing with a beakful of seeds. It’s a short communion, although swans and ducks stay around to pick up what was spilt into the river. Then they turn their backs and resume patrols, sliding up and down the river, watchful and ready for the next opportunity.