The Lakes
by Roz Goddard
Yesterday I took a train to the lakes
to see my life across wide water.
After months of home, feeling trimmed,
half-sized within walls, afraid of what lay
beyond the network of streets I’d walked and walked,
the lakes called, ‘Come, stand on the shore,
breathe willowherb, nearly sun, January’s
melted snow.’
I remembered tender lapping like a sleep song,
the chill, ancient sky.
Last year’s stored rain was purple blue
shadowed from beneath with carp and bream,
breath came smooth as swimming fish, day slowed
to a single point where earth met water.
Life shone from everywhere: blackthorn’s erupted
stars, a bee’s slow dip and disappear.
For a moment all was space and silence, lake
shared a secret I almost managed to hear.