There was a small lake near the farm I lived for some
years in my childhood. The lake was on peat land, and
its water was fenny and dark. The lake also had slow
swimming trout, that tasted of mud when eaten and so
were left to swim placidly near the surface of the lake tarn.
My friend and I built a small boat with a sail.
We tried to cross the mere, but the boat sank.
My friend, Peter, who could swim tried to swim ashore,
but didn´t make it. I remember his scream as a thing dragged him
down and I hoped he would stop. There was a silence, then,
I heard the voices of the adults coming to his rescue.
They never found Peter in a pond that had no bottom,
was lukewarm and boundless and had its foundation in
the maelstrom of conflicting horrors.
