Wet falls on the striking lines of cobble On the swerving paths of trouble My socks are damp and my feet are cold Light climbs on the dusky evening Sharp as faerie wings Hot like golden spring My eyes are closed and My hands are bound
There are rats at the dip of the grass before The ***** to the water begins Before the moulding wind sings On the spine of a duck’s back There are trees and trees and trees That live in solace without wings That rise with a curved branch Towards the sky
Green air tinged durky damp Leave spots on fading paths Where my scared footsteps leave no visible mark Is there a curse among the leaves? A misgiving in the trees? I open my door to a bumbling kettle Go home breathing empty grey To dream of the lake.
ah there's a lake near my house and it's so magical there I never stop thinking about it! it's not quite as dark as the lake in this poem, but you get the gist.
the title of the poem comes from the origins of the word 'lake' - it could mean 'pit of ****' in Old English, apparently :) dramatic, right? also I made up the word durky which was extremely fun.