Lake is a writhing weather boil of agonies.
They skim across once level
mirrors and skiffs from Tamworth Club
gash, slice, chisel, churn them up into rashes,
watched by stiff marshals who who wield orange power
and speed, irrespective of the wind,
tack stitches over the cuts.
I am mesmerized by frantic passion and novice carnage,
sailors without a rating,
unless the number on the hull
signifies collisions – “Scallywag” has 10!
Tree lines and Kingsbury tower are bored,
saw the same commotion yesterday,
witnessed out and back reckless behaviour, year by year.
Impassive autumn grey and brown,
on the far side where herons scan boats
sent forth to dance or dinghies recalled.
The square church owl’s derisive hoot is
silent as an average congregation,
clocks a belligerent buoy – rude red –
marking the permitted point of trainee insanity,
skips up and down, biffs the hurt surface,
does not care.
But when the fuss is over,
battlements go skating,
smooth glass plays with oaks and willows
on flat sun plains.
A Canada goose steps out of his bay,
came from the east to my right
soon grew to a flotilla whose
wisdom left long calm wakes,
peace and camomile instead of myrrh,
as water lowers, whirls wind down,
form quiet interference angled fringes,
dissipate lazy ripples, sooth margins, silences beasts,
happy scissors of light, diamond darts.
While the RYA Training Centre lunches,
tranquillity touches down,
anxiety subsides, inflammation sighs,
clouds stay where they are,
unfazed by a few foghorns
from an expert flock.