Poetry

By the Lake

Barbara Fisher

A sunless day and coolish. No weather

for a picnic. We have parked by the lake

and are eating our sandwiches in the car.

 

It’s one of those melancholy days when lake

and sky are the same grey; even the trees,

paperbarks mostly, offer only variations of tone.

 

The whole scene looks as though it’s composed

of fabrics: silk, faintly wrinkled, for the great

stretch of water, dark stitching for distant

 

oyster leases, with here and there embroidery

of black swans, while the folded, bush-clad hills

present a sombre tangle of knitting wool.

 

The cloudy sky is a vast cashmere shawl

—but here the fantasy begins to falter,

for looking at the big picture, we’ve failed

 

to notice modest runabouts the fishermen

have moored not far off-shore, and suddenly

we realise they are crammed (appliquéd?)

 

with pelicans, four or five to a boat,

taking their ease, silent, companionable,

as if they’re waiting for latecomers before

 

setting out on their party of pleasure.