Across the water, against the oaks and pines
a house stands shuttered and withdrawn,
a single rowing boat lies beached below.
The landing stages are stranded, torn
adrift from land by time, though
waiting cages hang down still, and bent
wires, angled nails and notches scrawl
their own cyphers, unintelligible lines
of script where now there are no longer lines.
Rusted, lame and tenuous, they crawl
further away from land, and make,
year on falling year, a bleached descent,
into the thickening water of the lake.