Lake

Out on the dark pewter of the lake, a single braided line of gold betrayed the journey of geese across its surface. It was a meaningless betrayal. Nothing was to be understood from the lake, the light, the geese or their direction. They were elements in a view that was always there, on a day which was no different in essentials from any other. And yet. The lake was not always pewter, rarely as calm as this, and though the geese were a constant presence, their activities, their number, were unpredictable. Usually there were other birds, too – gulls, swans, grebes, and terns in their season, as well as the magenpies, tits and finches which were unconcerned with the water. And sometimes there would be men with bags, umbrellas, tents, rods and tackle, passing unimaginable hours at the water’s edge. A constant play of constant variety. The same view, day after day. And yet different from hour to hour. Patterns without meaning, save that they attend to the unattended rhythms of sun and moon. Combinations without significance, save that they attune to the planet’s roll. And yet they could calm, depress or cow her emotions. The blank neutrality of pearl grey fog hanging over the surface, from which it was barely distinguishable.