Black as ink the lake extends.
As still as night it sits.
Low grey clouds obscure the sun.
Colour is reduced, greyness wins.
Its cold tentacles enfold my soul and body.
Its icy fingers enclose my form.
All that moves are the ripples from
the tears as they drip silently into the water.
Silent, expanding ripples as I sit alone on the jetty.
This is something I do not want to write.
I want to turn my back on it.
To look away.
To close the door.
I do not want to go here.
But your hand compels mine.
Wherever I turn I see you.
You gently remind me of what I need to write.
The moon blinks its way onto the world.
The clouds part and the countryside below
is cloaked in its soft silvery light.
Edges are no longer sharp but rounded.
Life is much softer.
A quiet descends.
Sounds that are usually masked by the
shrill and busyness of the day
can be heard once more.
Far off sounds travel further.
The motorbike climbs the track road,
its headlight piercing the gathering gloom of approaching evening.
Winding its way through the long forgotten ramparts
of this hill fort it finds its way to the top.
I praise you God for what you are.
You are my friend.