One could say that the Havel meadows are always the same. And at the same time, one would be completely right – and completely wrong.
In spring, the shore is a promise. The willows bloom, as if trying to shake off the silence of winter. Birds that for months one only knew as distant sounds are suddenly there again, in the midst of it all, loud and unmistakable. The water sparkles brighter, as if it had something planned. And on the paths along the Havelweg, walkers with sleepy dogs meet joggers with overly ambitious goals.
In summer, a languid clarity hangs over everything. The boats drift leisurely by like thoughts one doesn't need to think through to the end. On the shore, people sit with bare feet in the water, reading, talking, silent. The sun is high, but the trees cast shadows like old friends: reliable, cool, inviting. If you want, you can find your own little piece of eternity in the light gaps between the trunks.
In autumn, the shore becomes quieter. The light changes color, as if fed up with the same old thing. The leaves celebrate a festival no one has to host, dancing across the path until the wind carries them somewhere winter won't find them. A different tone, a darker one, lies on the water. And the bench on the slope, which used to smell of coffee and conversation, suddenly seems like a place for letters that were never sent.
And then winter. Still as a breath. The trees stand there like memories—leafless, but not lifeless. The willows, half-frozen in the water, look like ancient creatures, watching over us without anyone asking. The lake freezes, but never completely. A gap remains, a crack between the water and the ice, a sign that movement remains possible—even when everything is still.
Those who pass by here again and again throughout the year realize: The Havel meadows don't tell one story. They tell four. And each one is quiet. But none is silent.