Lake Of Lost Lovers

Lake Of Lost Lovers
© Surazeus
2015 07 11

When the heron perches on the pine branch,
and noon heat shimmers over the brown lake
where people stroll slowly after late lunch,
Stella stops and sits on the swinging chair,
and floats alone in languid sultry air
to dream about the features of his face.

Tomatoes gleam red on the curling vine
where two butterflies dance in rapid swirls,
and the heron flutters judgmental wings,
though now would be the perfect time of day
for the blind and crippled angel who sings
to approach and offer a glass of wine.

"He died so long ago," she smiles and sighs,
when the swift sparrow without heart or eyes
darts past through the shimmer of her desire,
"I forgot the true features of his face,
and the tone of his voice I cannot hear,
though he often sang to me about love."

Watching three ducks float on the languid lake,
then dive to snatch weeds from disgusting mud,
Stella wipes away sweat and hides her wings.
"He suffered such terrible pain at the end,
I understand why he wanted to die,
and hung himself at last from the blind door."

The blue heron flutters wings and cocks his head
as she feels her soul melt into the lake.
"I cannot follow you into blind death,
my sweet love, for I love to feel alive.
I wish I could believe we live again,
yet you are nothing but a fading smell."

Though lake ripples little adoring waves,
and breezes caress her conceding cheek,
trees stand forever and ignore her thoughts,
though they beam hot and searing from her eyes,
and all the world lurches in a quick flash,
so she walks away from passionate peace.

When the heron perches on the pine branch,
and noon heat shimmers over the brown lake
where no one now strolls among dreaming trees,
the swinging chair swings slow, too tired to weep,
and floats alone in languid sultry air
to dream about the features of blank clouds.