At dawn, the sun covers the naked sleeping lake’s feet
in swathes of warm burnished copper and bronze,
winter’s cold has frozen her heart, but not for long,
the sleeping trees are awake with squirrels,
sparrows and cardinals dart in its branches,
and the sky will soon draw her blue shawl,
adorned with plump gossamer clouds,
emblazoned in Indian yellow, interspersed with white,
parts of the sky, still gray with the night’s slumber,
will shake off its dust, and display a fading Prussian blue,
with blushing salmon pink in fast fading shades.
The fish swimming at the bottom
will in time, as it warms rise,
silver arrows darting in schools
will rise to bask in warmer waters,
and the dark nephrite shadows
mirrored in the lake will turn viridian,
and the poet sitting on its shore
yearning to put the canoe into the lake,
to hear the water lapping against its sides,
the splash of the oars and the canoe,
gliding across a placid lake with gentle waves.
Dreams are January winter mornings
of warmer yearnings to glide gently, gently,
over waters and watch beauty reflected,
of the clouds sauntering, across its mirrored face
and nostalgically gazing at a photograph,
the fireplace fires desire for warmer climes.
Charlie Bottle's passion is poetry. He has lived on three continents, speaks five languages and loves different cultures, people, music and food. He believes that "Poetry uses the economy of words to express the essence of our humanity." It is this magical use of brevity to express the profound that drew him to poetry. While his professional and personal life has pulled him in different directions, He continues in his discipleship of the craft and writes whenever the muse moves him. While English is his second language it is the language in which he lives, breathes, thinks and writes poetry.