Balcombe Lake

And this is what I struggle to comprehend in my own childish way: the nature of things.

A fly lands on my unwelcoming body; I bat it away. The spotted ladybird crawls down the surface of my jeans. Sunlight travels across the surface of the water. The lake moves in unfathomable directions. It is hot, it blows cold, a boy sleeps beside me, cap over eyes.

Trees stand at the side of the lake for two hundred years, brushing branches, nestling into their reflection on the water.

A grebe moves, a reed bends; pond-skaters make circles like rain.

We all return in the end. We all are born of this endless mile.

The wind turns, the unborn child alights the dark and weary path to a new and distant harbour.

Skin crinkles, flowers fade, ice melts, silence knowing sound.

I am a brave animal. But I have lost my way back to the burrow. I need my siblings. I yearn for my mother.

She sinks into the earth. The trees are cracking up overhead. Fir cones shower, a duck squeaks, fish jump in the clear water. I blink once; awake.