Upon the Drift of Wimbleball Lake
Looking much like some
misshapen shard of silver blue glass
on a warm summers day
and from a distance, with no visible
signs of a ripple or wave
to give her away, nor to hint at the
length or the depth of her ..
Up close tho’ she lures like a mistress
and acts a little depraved
Just the way that you want her to ..
Yet, here and there, where the blossom
drifts and banks of it pile high ..
That is where, we may once have made
love, neath a near cloudless sky ..
There on the drift of Wimbleball Lake
that jewel of a place, pinned
to the heart of our very own rural Exmoor ..