Three Lakes
Jean Sprackland, 2 August 2007
“... You’re fastened in a heavy collar of ice. The water slakes its thirst on your blood-warmth. That may not be weed brushing your thigh. Under this green lid, a lost topography of caves and thickets, tenanted by ancients. The drowned swimmer the locals speak of, still clutching his letters of introduction. Perfect sky: low and smoky with rain. The lake bruised ... ”