The lake placid: how many times have
I watched it pitch out there? Isolated,
a perfection in its slow moving glacis.
Forbidding? But that’s not it,
the layers slip, unwind, we’ve so few
days left, where not even words
will ever invent. Stray feelings
lapped insensitive and falling in
to the long night’s insensate drift.
All unspoken yet between us,
neither knowing; becoming perhaps
our last observation before the shore?
© 2005 Roland John. All rights reserved.
From A Lament for England and other poems | bluechrome, 2005
Reprinted by permission of the author.
![[Poetry X Logo]](http://poetryx.com/images/poetryXLogo.gif)
