share


The Lake

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.


ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTOR

is currently completing a PhD at Queen’s University Belfast. His poems have appeared in The Tangerine and as part of the Lifeboat series. He was selected for the Poetry Ireland Introduction Series in 2018 and in 2019 was the winner of the inaugural Brotherton Prize.



READ NEXT

feature

April 2012

Oradour-sur-Glane: Reflections on the Culture of Memorial in Europe

Will Stone

feature

April 2012

Que nos caravanes s’avancent Vers ce lieu marqué par le sang Une plaie au coeur de la France Y...

fiction

January 2016

The Bees

Wioletta Greg

TR. Eliza Marciniak

fiction

January 2016

On Sunday right after lunch, my father began preparing muskrat skins and cut his finger on a dirty penknife....

Art

January 2017

New Communities

Robert Assaye

Art

January 2017

DeviantArt is the world’s ‘largest online community of artists and art-lovers’ and its thirteenth largest social network. Its forty...

 

Get our newsletter

 

* indicates required