That distant bellow is merely a case
Of west wind rushing through the tamarack
In a race with itself to cliff and back,
Far from the lake’s quiet undisturbed face
But for the waxwings’ endless mayfly chase,
The roll of shore-bound flotsam, bric-a-brac
Topped with foam, following a daubed-light track
Of welcome ripple at a breeze’s pace.

Nothing bothers the lake, not thick eel grass,
Not the murmurings of air-flow. the creep
Of painted turtles’ it lets all those pass
That need its shelter, its relief, the steep
Of golden sun in water, glimmer-glass,
Long as a white pine trunk and mirrored deep.

 

John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in The Lyric, Vallum and the science fiction anthology, “The Kennedy Curse” with work upcoming in Bryant Literary Magazine, Natural Bridge, Southern California Review and the Oyez Review.

Featured Image: “The Lake District Painting” by Alfred de Breanski Buttermere.

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One Response

  1. gabriel

    Like this, good imagery free from banal rhymes and the poem conveys the sounds of the lake – the rush of wings, a distant wind in the trees, shore ripples, grass.

    Reply

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