The lake bed puckers
beneath day’s
stinging rays,
soil scabbing
like a wound
along the
exposed banks.
Fresh depths tempt
the young shore,
only feet away,
with silver peaks,
a reprieve from heat,
and illuminated waves.
Are the fish
panicked?
They don’t
appear to be.
They carry on all
glistening scales
and comical
gloam gawping.
Will the lake
keep disappearing?
Until all the carp
are left
in a swirling
pool of death-
of muck, and fright-
half-seeing.
I pace the
water’s edge,
mourning
each
evaporated
inch.
It’s as draining
to watch
as it is
to live.
pm poetry 