The Lakes

The Lakes
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
        melted snow.’

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.