February 17th, 2022Local Lines
St George’s Lake
You turn left just before the bush deepens,
slow jolt over orange ruts, a gravelled side street
where sun faded fibros crowd its edges,
blank windows like sunglasses, secretive, watchful.
Silent rooms leak out to ochre, threadbare weeds
and then, suddenly, a giant eye,
shimmering behind the trees
meets muddy waters
in its sleepy, skyward gaze.
Small brown ducks glide, impassive,
then dash and plunge
bums up to plunder and gulp.
Sun kisses twinkle on tiny wave spills like
whispering lights on a waving bed
of gold brown silk.
My grandson reclines on a plastic tube,
young brown flesh and the liquid skin of the lake
exploding as his legs lift and thrash, water
sequinned air shaping sculpted columns
that dissolve and fall.
Four ducks surge in formation behind him,
small feathered tugboats
breasting water with an air of
solemn industry, a sedate power that surges,
little webbed machines, the engines that lie
beneath the surface of things.
Lake St George, cradled in the embrace of clay and stone, rests,
its stillness murmuring beneath the surface.
Its hidden icy waters.
Its rocky quarry heart.
- Rhonda Cottsell
Retired librarian Rhonda lives in Creswick and though most of her working life was spent in cities she was born to a farm and small towns have finally been able to build her writing life. Her other loves are her adult offspring and grandson, garden, cooking and eating, and reading way too much.
Local Lines comes mainly from a group of local poets but other submissions are always welcome. To have a poem considered for publication contact Bill Wootton at cottlesbreedge@gmail.com
