When the lake came for us
a dark hue zipped across it
like a tent’s outer shell being shut.
It stung us as it rose
from out of the stillness
drawing the surface over us.
I swam in it that afternoon
which was warm and perfectly current-less
but for the wind, rushing to knock me,
bidding that I pray
to the pebbles,
the shale and broken bottles,
a trip-me-up dirty old rope
mooring the shadows
for god knows how long.
Feet off the grit floor it was fine.
The lake stirred in fits
but was no real threat to movement further out,
the body a bow that way,
rolling through the water’s cool slaps,
delving for the other side.
But, out there alone,
and not a quarter of the way across,
I found I had to turn
for fear I’d meet the pucker
of miles-dark depths
and things touched fearlessly
by water only.
I wanted no part in that journey.