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Outside, the rain seems always on the brink Like most people that morning I was avoiding my father’s funeral I must’ve stood at the door with my coat on for hours, always turning  back as though putting off seeing a film It was the sort of day for wearing an old shirt into town to buy a new shirt The rain began The wind agitated the lake The sort of lake you can’t when giving directions from the road miss The sort of road people call ‘the high road’ leading down to the lake people call ‘the old lake’ from which the wind brings news of the drowned boy