Away at the Lake
Hills hid the tiny fishing town from view.
Early fall, I took a much-needed break.
The sky glowed blue over a rippled lake.
Wood paddles dipped and moved the red canoe.
Hemlocks huddled on shore as if they knew
the mountain would not block the coming storm.
The sky darkened, whitecaps began to form
as the air chilled and a whistling wind blew.
The canoe sidled up to the long dock.
My nephew lent his strong and friendly hand.
Friends had clam chowder cooking in the crock.
The tinkling chimes and thunder formed a band,
the sound of rain more pleasant than a clock.
We chatted as we waited in the stand.
No comments:
Post a Comment