The little lake, not far from the houses, has been
dry for years and is full of thistles and rubbish.
By, what was its shore, the sad rest of a rowboat
I remember it was blue, and someone had nicked
its oars; for firewood I take it. I used to row in
this lake in the evening catching trout.
When the moon made the lake into shimmering
silver, my heart got quite wobbly by the beauty.
Last week I crossed the lake on my scooter, it was
not easy, I lost my balance and was badly stung,
gasped for air, felt as drowning in a dry lagoon.
In the future, the new commodity will be water.
