Joanna Preston: The Lake

Sullen this morning,
grey, and dull as the eye
of one more dead thing.

How casually waves
slap the shore,

leave it shocked,
open mouthed
and silent.

The pier braced
against the lake

is the cowed spine
of a beaten woman,
the booted feet

of fishermen
on her shoulder-blades,

lures of bright metal
glittering like promises
through weed and rocks.

May the wind change
to the south,

snag his line
around branches
and submerged roots,

pale fingers tangled
in deep water

he’d said:
“It could swallow me.
I would sink and sink

and never touch
the heart of this lake...”