At the Lake

I

Thirty five greens,
A full forest palette,
Reflected in water.
Shadows creep quietly
Over its surface,
Carefully steering clear
Of deadwood arms
Eerily sticking out
Of the deep.


II

A twosome,
Geese or swans,
I can't tell.
Drunk on February sunshine,
Or revelling in their stark
Whiteness,
Glide rapidly away,
Dipping and bobbing
To their own song,
Of love?

III

A narrow slab of wood
Transforms
Into an intimate table
For four
On a sun-flashed terrace.
Absorbs beer-bottle rings,
Flecks of ash,
Spilt pasta sauce,
An erring blob of hummus.
Ties together threads
Of stories shared.
Becomes a prop
For heads thrown back
In unfettered,
Uncomplicated,
Laughter.

All,
Under a steady blue sky,
Over a living, green, lake.