The Price Of Water

The little lake, not far from the houses, has been dry for years and is full of thistles and rubbish. By, what was its shore, the sad rest of a rowboat I remember it was blue, and someone had nicked its oars; for firewood I take it. I used to row in this lake in the evening catching trout. When the moon made the lake into shimmering silver my heart got quite wobbly by the beauty. Last week I crossed the lake on my scooter, it was not easy I lost my balance and was badly stung, gasped for air, felt as drowning in a dry lagoon. In the future the new commodity will be water.