dreaming the lake mayliewan

bull-rushes all around and swathes

of dry wheat stalks almost obscure

the reflections of the rich owners’

mansions— almost— but tonight

they are mirrored so perfectly

it is as if another group of elaborate

houses lies beneath the calm surface

a surreal Atlantis where I could slip

and enter the fantasy as easily

as entering any other village

the demarcation point where they

meet, a still distinction

it would not be drowning or death

but gentle in the undertow I’d be

taken in the rhythm of the bees