The Lake A Poem written by Geoff Murray

The Lake A Poem written by Geoff Murray

A Poem about The Lake
Wed, 20 Dec 2017, The Lake

By Geoff Murray

The Lake

There is a place, you may have heard of it
if London is your home, yet, it may have
yet to dawn on you as it has dawned on me
and drawn you in at dawn to swim, yes, swim!

The pioneering spirit is strong, made
stronger by the shivers coming on as
downy jackets pad the spaces that our
next pink champion has to pad between.

Whispered tales of distant courage come
unbidden to my warming ear; of channels swam and deserts run;
Of type-two fun as damp flesh grips dry cloth unwilling to
divested be of its petunia vict'ry flush.

Thou shalt not ask the temperature before
Thine swim lest the will find flaw in numbered
thought, in Fahrenheit or Celsius twinned
and pinned for young and old up by the door.

Are you numb? Can you still finger to thumb?
Tea!  Tea for this one! The shuddering one
with wrists a'drip and steaming knuckles white 
from tea tsunami'ed o'er the rim.

There is a place, you may have heard of it
if London is your home, yet, it may have
yet to dawn on you as it has dawned on me
and drawn from me both warmth and woe and

Oh it's free!  I say free; twenty pounds the 
currency required but come the feed and
percentages redeemed for smashed avo
and coffee its basically free.
 
With flesh for fins and winter biting at
our skins, at the endings of our limbs long
after the endings of our swims swam thinnly
holding to some form formed formerly in warm

Warming days of May and June when to reach
and roll and finger-first the surface angle
in with gliding delve and sunshine shining
green within the water, oh then tis heav'n to swim.

To swim. How I itch to swim.  And so does
it begin, the ac'tual itching of the 
skin as creeping inkling comes the curse on carapaced
creatures deep within: the maddn'ing curse of skin.

There is a place, you may have been to it 
if London's where you stay.  By a cafe
with its latte-laity and foul at
play is a whole lake-borne community.

Perhaps you came that way, past the cafe,
where the cavalrymen canter on the
bridleway, you can't hear them by the 
lake though, y'know, they're too far away.

Everything is.

Languid the lake lies liquid on, long after
we have come and gone, breathed out as once we 
were drawn in that tales of yore be told on
weekend morns of us that here at dawn did swim.
[Geoff Murray]

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