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

fiction

January 2015

Adventures in Immediate...

Max Blecher

TR. Michael Henry Heim

fiction

January 2015

I can picture myself as a small child wearing a nightshirt that comes down to my heels. I am...

fiction

May 2016

Panty

Sangeeta Bandyopadhyay

TR. Arunava Sinha

fiction

May 2016

She was walking. Along an almost silent lane in the city.   Work – she had abandoned her work...

feature

September 2013

A God In Spite of His Nose

Anna Della Subin

feature

September 2013

‘Paradise is a person. Come into this world.’ — Charles Olson   In the darkness of the temple, footsteps...

 

Get our newsletter

 

* indicates required