Written by John Grey
Across the surface, an inverted skein of light,
smooth as a golden-eye
and its underwater webbed propellers.
Wind wields an uncommon broom of air
but sweeps gently, the shining liquid screen.
This lake is memories by the drop,
or in the transient handful,
an old wonder, a storage vault of faith and innocence.
It’s the scent of pine and hyacinth,
occasional leap offish like a woodwind trill
in an orchestra of mellow violins.
Children unbutton shirts, don splash and chill.
A man wades away from the shore
until he’s up to his neck in diamonds.
In the distance, an angler casts his line
just as the sun does, with incalculable reward.