The Drowned Forest

Blackness pours from the gunwhales and portholes,

Surrounding the voyager.

Ropes of ghostly moonlight coil spiralling to the watery landscape beneath.

As a seabed, the coniferous forest floor emerges from the darkest depths.

Wreckage: bowline branches which floated above the surface,

Lay twisted, bent, broken.

Bleached by the phases of the moon, the bones contort,

Loom large in the gloom.

They will never be mainmasts, lost like empty binnacles.

 

 

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Yesterday, I stood by the lake.

Picture 023Before the disturbance of stick in water and barking of the black dog, all was silent. The peace surrounded us and the molten autumnal sunshine dripped over the shore. The surface of the lake beckoned weary travellers to it. Transfixed, I watched a flock of Canada geese make their final descent. With all the clunkiness and mechanism of an air craft, they lowered their legs in an ungainly dance. A v of skis ready for impact. All of this happened within twenty feet of me and my canine companion. With front row seats to such a spectacle, I applauded joyfully as all made an exhausted landing and I left a different person.