Dawn coming late

Dawn comes late

to the marl lake,

shielded by the weight

of chalk bastions

from early sorties.

Dawn comes late;

it doesn’t break here

but tumbles in its rising

like a morning psalm,

chanted by fieldfares.

Yawning awake,

the lake shines its face

to the tardy sun,

its surface rhythming

in the waking breeze.

Though I am alone

in witness

this is not loneliness

but soulitude.

Midday at the quarry

Cootlets make a vee-line on the watery parchment,

calligraphers with quills in place,

heading for the other shore,

as the lone poet speaks his words

to unsuspecting birds

and an audience of clouds.

Then, in the reluctant quiet,

they practice diving -

bobbing like busy floats

in front of sleeping anglers.

Mother coot queeks her orders

to these playing chicks,

apart from that,

and the occasional startled birdcall,

a peace settles.

The occasional carp saunters by -

a guard on perimeter patrol,

stoically flowing well remembered contours.

In the nursery shallows, 

perch and roach,

barely recognisable as yet,

play together unknowing their latent enmity.

Nessie ?

photo: Houghton Regis chalk pit

Houghton has its

mystery

rising from the water

like the lady of the lake

without a sword in hand.

Not a yeti or big-foot,

no Nessie this:

the pneumatic ascension

of discarded tyre.

No romantic lure

for the easily entrapped

encamped on the bank

with their sonar

and telescopes.

No prehistoric megalith,

no post apocalyptic mutation

nor testament to the vagaries of nature.

Merely the entrapment of air

in its vulcanised shell.