Ian Souter Poet Narrative

The Lake

The Lake.....

lies… still,
a glistening sheet of tin foil,
shimmering in a cold-eyed wind.

At night
the lake still... lies… still;
a coffin with lid screwed light-tight.

On occasion, the moon trickles light,
lightly across the lake's pitch-black back;
the knack of making the coffin lid crack!

Today, I challenge myself
to touch-dive the lake’s chilling depths,
halfway down I halt, a dark vault, 
weakens my errant confidence. 
Despite puppet legs and handcuffed arms
I spin frantically to reach a detached surface,
bursting out like some skittish, Scottish salmon
only to be held between the two supremos;
illuminated sky and darksome water.

Tonight, the lake grips my bedroom window
and I watch as watery, inky tentacles 
claw and talon at an unsettled shoreline. 

Later, I wait for sleep to possess me,
sensing surrounding hills clinging closely
while rain falls like pellets of iron.

So I drift…listening  to the lake
whispering dangerous, whispering treacherous secrets
until nature’s seesaw; night tilts into daylight.


Ian Souter

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