A Poem for the Morning


Once again I thrust upon my unwilling audience an observation of the moment, an image caught in rapid transit. In other words a poem. Those highly allergic would be wise to skip this entry and move on. Otherwise, enjoy.

Lady of the Lake
Steven Riddle

These grey fingers rise--
the grey of morning frost,
the tendrils of vines
that will wrap around
the day--from the smooth
looking-glass of Her dark lake,
and give notice that She lives
and stirs still. She speaks
and Her voice starts as mist
and thickens to fog so dense
and deep, that when she walks
she is seen as simply shadow.
Her tread upon the ground a lambent
cold that tickles the bones
of Earth. Where She rises the sun
does not set, but human eyes
fail to see. Where she walks
a million follow in Her steps
neither knowing Her name
nor the lake from which she came.

© 2002

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This page contains a single entry by Steven Riddle published on December 16, 2002 8:14 AM.

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