That November, the lake was frozen over,
It was then, that the dead decided to return;
Swans tired of Charlie Chaplin walks –
Plus long sliding landing strips;
Returned with untried wings to the island.
All our breaths were vaporised,
From morning, until the last puff of dusk;
So when the dead surfaced,
The ice seemed to remain unbroken.
I believed I could hear their voices
Across the surface of the penitential water,
That sound that had always echoed in this place –
Filtered by the density.
Soft to loud cracking moans;
Like ravens pecking on the ice,
Warning me how thin this world really is.
© Fingleton (Août 2016) (Löst Viking)