Ode to a...duck

I had a little duck; I put him in a race. I only got his number, I never saw his face.

In the shadow of the Castle, on Boxing Day, at noon. Under starters orders, the race would begin soon.

White waters swirled and foamed, in mighty Finham Brook. A sea of faces lined the banks, as ducks to water took.

A host of yellow filled the Stream, as the race got underway. Where was my duck in this humungous flock, it was hard to say.

The field became strung out as the race it did unfold. The Front-runners, the Chasers, the Laggards. Each a story yet untold.

Let mine be with the leaders that glide serenely on their bellies Not ignominiously scooped up by the man with net and wellies.

I jostled round the winner’s board that named the victors of the race Not first, not second, not third, not fourth, my duck it had no place.

As the sad truth dawned on me, that my duck did not win it I found myself thinking, I hope that he was in it.

If for my quid I got my duck it would overcome this flaw. I could train him in the bath and develop real rapport.

I could dress him up on race day to stand out from the crowd. See him as he passes me and cheer him long and loud.

But what decides the outcome. Ponder for a while. Flows, snags and eddies or fitness, form and guile.

As we stand on frosty bank and ask why should we care? It is our lives, our hopes, our dreams our Kenilworth we share. - Dave Johnson, via email.