The Lady Of The Lake
M
Mark Heathcote
0
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Over the crescent wall of Booths mere Lake
Fulsome morning rises from sleep to wake.
With a Eucharist ringing of holy bells
Soulless grey, unmoving, icy waters
Saturate with deaths chained, daughters.
Holds firm its eerie, smoggy smells
Its haunted waters still give rise.
To moonlit secrets of surprise
That ghostly chomp at the water's edge
That's when the Lady of the Lake
She rises from sleep to wake.
From bulrush and blanket sedge
Where other spirits have sort to fly
The distant milk herds bellowing cry.
--Of 'Wake for work or die.'
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