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
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.