The Lake

The stones of glee glistened against the dark flotila of dusky cloud,
The lake spake of a freezing ache,
The mountains they did break into crags of age,
Like an ancient sage or a druid full of rage,
This painted page, has it become a cage,
Or a living stage.

Gloss as thick as blood the lagubrious flood,
Rustling reeds and sticky mud,
The peaks are curtains of lace in the distant rain,
Tapestries of light in all their might,
The walls of battlments,
The ramparts of a one eyed giant.

All is alone, all is silent,
Fear freezes into stasis the small things,
That say, see me not,see me not.
Only their own kind are for warmth.
How else could it be.