It stunk really bad, hardly any water covered the bottom of the river. The extremely hot summer had caused it to evaporate. Weather forecasters trying not to appear gleeful as their global warming predictions were coming true.
The mud had dried to golden brown tanned by the unforgiving sun. Silt, what is silt he wondered? His geography lessons failing him. Rusty objects, half exposed, glinted in the sun, making him shield his eyes. He wondered again, when and whom had thrown them into the river. Each hiding their existence until this summer.
He sat down on the neglected bench, graffiti trying to obliterate the plaque to someone’s daughter. When this had first been dedicated many people would have found solace sitting here, the gentle sound of the ripples of the water, wild flowers, bees buzzing, the smell of quiet contentment not the stench of pollution.
An old lady supported by a wheeled walker was heading his way clutching a few straggly flowers. He’d leave soon so she could sit here and remember happier days.
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