I stood by the edge of the lake.
The waters soaked with memories
Surrounded by damp, green walls
Towering majestically upwards.
I shivered, as the wind iced over
The water’s rippled surface.
It stung my face in its wake.
Ignoring my presence –
Obliged to put up with me,
The lake remained contained
Composed and brooding.
Guarding long-held, deadly secrets.
I headed to the monastic ruins,
That lodged by these fierce waters.
Crossing by the sleepy graveyard.
Home to kings and famous saints
And ordinary, long forgotten lives
Buried deep, deep
In the dark earth and flinted stone.
A gaggle of tourists appeared
And trooped over the sacred land.
With half-hearted interest, they chatted
And within the timeless backdrop,
They took photographs of each other
Leaning back against
The old lichen encrusted gravestones.
Suddenly, as if tranced and called away
They meandered back down the pathway.
Then the gentle rain fell slowly
Washing away any traces of their visit.
The lake, thirsty for complete isolation
Drunk in the dusky silence.
Submerged in replenishment,
Its edges blurred mysteriously.
It faded into haunting grey mists.
And at last – all was still.