Morning comes colourless;
trees stoop to the lake like pilgrims
witnessing images that are riddles in the water.
A sudden shriek: “Over here, no here, over here.”
I see nothing; the lake keeps its children chilled
in ice buckets among the reeds.
Once I trailed a ripple from a boat
that beveled this water. I’ll remember the oars’
loud soft thud, slap, lick till I die.
It was June. Insects teemed on the surface.
The sun, that tanned our backs, lulled the countryside
into sleep before the fields were even cranked.
My father was there.
Now December.The lake drags its cutlery
through this cress-green landscape
with an indifference that leaves memories shivering.
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