|Four white-washed walls enclose four spartan rooms
Two hours from the hustle of his town house
Suburban roofs replaced by the glacial tarn
Flat, cold, in the peak’s dark shadow.
The Lotus outside parked neatly;
His single compromise to his single being.
And every other weekend he’s here
When his home is empty of the chattle of children.
Pretending he can write, pretending he can paint,
Amateurish escapist efforts stacked against the walls.
His grandfather’s piano, opposite the door,
Joplin with two fingers and no-one to hear.
Merlot and thoughts.
And Sunday morning the scull across the tarn
Cold, hard, recalling winter mornings on the Thames
Arrow-straight wake with breath hanging;
And there she is, rising from the mist
Her eyes as blue as the water beneath and still a gateway to her soul.
Framed by her long blond hair she looks steadily at him;
Reproach or sadness?
For this is the only time he sees her now;
The love of his life, the Lady of the Lake.
© Copyright 2004 H.M. (UN: whiteroses at Writing.Com).
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