Poetry: The Lake

Truly tired today.

After a weeks "holiday" I returned to Henry's. And as I waded through his junk I managed to take myself to a sweeter place. My poetry. Recalling snippets of old verse catapulted me from the cesspit and into a calm beautiful azure lake. I saw this lake in my mind's eye and as the flies rampaged around my aching head I slipped a hand in the icy water and it felt good...

Having an imagination is a great thing.

The lake had orange and lilac flowers floating on it and in the distance I saw a strange looking bird, its head was large and bulbous and covered by a crown of scarlet feathers. It sat motionless on the bank and I wondered when it would move.

Then I went upstairs.
A calamity of men's underpants lay on the floor and so I bent and stretched trying to make a home out of the pigsty.

My lake swelled.

Going downstairs a poem I'd written yesterday for a friend jumped around my brain, jumped in and out like a crazed happy child and it felt good, so when I humped the laundry basket from a to b my heart screeched in defiance...


Anyway, the continuous vision of the lake was therapeutic. I couldn't see anything around it, no grass or people or wooden boats, just a bird.
It's at times like these that I wish I could paint.



The Lake

I'm on your edge
in the dry
but you're pulling me in
drawing me down
tender lake

A bird in red looks across
aloof in scarlet headdress
his stillness matching my own

We stare

I'm on your edge
in the heat
and my stance is lonely and queer
a sudden gust makes the waters wave
and it urges me to come in

The bird in red turns from me
its nature saying fly
hurtling
it scuds and shoots round the sky

I'm on the edge
eyeing the bird
whilst cold water christens my feet
How name thee these feet
Heavy I say
and remain on the edge of the tender lake.



I'm on my own writing this but the lake is still waving to me:)