On The South Side Of The Lake
Low cries of heron; curlew calls and circles.
In the chill air
I shiver, stamp the cold earth, hug goose-fleshed arms against
and smell the evening air of grass and turf
and just a little, smoke.
There are echoes on the air, faint calls from the other side; carried by
the still lake water,
and whispered back and forwards through the reeds.
Above the lapping water of the south shore, is heard