Up in a room,
Cool and sterile
The walls echo silence
Light filters in

Down a flight of stairs
Out the side door
To the lake,
An Ocean unto itself

The Sun is high when the memories come
Water is warm, skin is cold
Leaving a wake behind, moving quickly
Out from under, the lucky ones

Clambering now, upon a pier
Out of the water with nothing to fear
The Sun is low and the colour is draining
The brush is drying, as is the painting