unfinished

the lake is grumbling, restless.

the wind promised it a storm,

teasing the waves into a frenzy,

whispers of thunder and rain,

then shut the door like a spiteful wife,

strolling away at its crescendo.

now the lake is sullen and growling,

hurling angry waves against the shore;

even the seagulls have fled their perches on the rocks,

flocking uncertainly on the inland grass.

the wind is mocking the water:

she climbs along the shoreline,

gusting between the trees, laughing in the banks,

a frustrated roar behind as she slips away.

she weaves through the shabby shops,

advertising kites and bikes, paddleboats,

sending bright swathes of fabric swirling through the sky.

it is early spring, and cold.

i watch the grey sky and roiling lake;

listen to the bitterness in the wind.

the flags and kites, the promises of fun,

they bend over, doubled,

brightness nulled by the wind and the rain.