The Lake - Poem by Diane Hine
Midday rays slide through bladed gum leaves;
thump and lever shaded nooks.
The lake's green fringe is pressed drab grey
by sixty miles of baked blue sky
like flowers in a book.
The hammered aluminum lake glares;
wraps thin chilled metal around legs,
sloughs sheets of steam to thicken the air.
A jumble of drowned forest debris
is dim lit in silt dregs.
Night congeals the red gum effusions
of Marris to hard black streaks and knobs.
Two people tread on discarded bark
under stressed limbs of pale Wandoo.
Force fed trees relax, quaff oxygen
and stretch after dark.
Opaque water and transparent air;
equally black and balmy.
Split by a calm cohesive layer
barely noticeable to the skin.
The stillness disarms.
The lake's texture at night is
smooth, dense, buoyant and soft.
Billions of light years above,
the naked universe reveals all, if
only the man and woman cared
to look up.
Comments about The Lake by Diane Hine
Read this poem in other languages
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye