The Lake Poem by Andrew David Dalby

I close my eyes and the lake comes to mind:

Its silver hue, flat expanse extends onward,
Into what seems an eternal; yet is refined,
By thick mists sweeping, rolling now forward,
That is made by soft energy, simply defined.

And through the cold, crystal clear water,
Are -hard seen- large orbs of mitered stones;
That seem as eyes beholding life's curiosity,
mere musings of the gods upon their thrones.

While, out of this still and solid open water
Fingers, slow cracked open with naked honesty;
Rise rust dusted, thickly veined squatters
grow these grey aged forms of twisted trees.

Their murmur's rest in whispers along the beach,
And in winked hints beside the slow curling shore
These lusty ghosts that cling to life reach out
then slowly thrust deep in a rich ruddy rapport.

And how they mingle with your near sweet salt,
which tingle's a tease to blister out a shear.
I feel it rest upon the wet crimson, soft silk,
Of my now slowly blushing, blossoming spear.

Then, as this thus begins to slowly ebb away,
I try to stay with these steady heady pulses,
And achingly long to rest nowhere else but here,
For your raw warmth is healing all my bruises.

C-ADD,2013