The Lake Within

Thoughts while contemplating the shore at Crystal Beach: 1983 ~ 2003 . . . .
Ange Coniglio

EARLY MORNING, JUNE 1, 1988

The moon, just past full, hung high
in the southern sky.

Near the horizon,
a whisper of wind
collaborated with the brilliant orb
and ruffled the lake's surface
to transmute the distant waters
into myriad points of scintillating silver.

Closer, in the protection of the bay,
the shallows were still and black,
the velvet surface disturbed only by wavelets
which caught the argent light of the moon
and threw long lines of quicksilver
toward the shore.

THE BREEZE AND I

Cicadas sing, high in the trees.

Waves whisper at the shore.

A soft and gentle southwest breeze

wafts the echo of an oar

across the Lake.

Beneath the red and rising sun,

a heron spreads its wings to fly.

Two swallows swoop and swerve as one

against the brilliant azure sky

and leave a rainbow in their wake.

Here, once, the "Comet" clanked and roared.

"Canadiana" crowds debarked

to share the comforts of the shore

and seek the treasures of the Park,

arrayed like gems, in easy reach.

The throngs are gone. The Comet's still,

but not the ever constant breeze;

and cottages upon the Hill

remain to tend the memories

of summer, youth, and Crystal Beach.

Labor Day plus one - THE LAKE WITHIN

The lake and sky share shades of grey, white,
silver and blue.

The pier, shabby and in disrepair, is transformed by
the setting sun into alternate angles of shadow and
gold, and the clouds change from pillars of white and grey to billows of pink cotton-candy.

This lake is held within the Summer's lake, with its
power boats and beachside bars
and hooting revelers.

Now the only sounds are the chirps of crickets, the
squabbling of seabirds and the whisper of waves
against the shore.

Huddling gulls are the lonely remnants
of Summer's crowds.

The jet-skis and boats and bozoes
are gone.

The lake within remains.

HARVEST MOON-SET: Silver and Gold

This night the lake is motionless,
as if deferring to the beauty of the sky.

The brilliant moon marches
toward the far horizon,
trailed by red Mars, glowing Jupiter,
and sparkling Venus.

Diamond stars twinkle
in the jet blackness
as a meteor glows phosphorus
against the velvet vault of heaven.

Slowly, stately, the moon makes her descent,
with a last coy glance
through the lace of western trees
as her lord the sun announces his arrival
with a glimmer of gold in the east.

SEPTEMBER MORN

A great blue heron visited our beach today.

In other years or seasons this stately bird,
wingspan greater than a man is tall, may have silently soared
above a valley stream in Utah, or flapped elegantly through
the mists of a northern Canadian marsh, or stealthily stalked
fish along the shoreline of a Florida key.

A shy creature, she shunned the crowds of Summer. But today, she warily tested the same shallow waters in which the throngs had so recently frolicked, her slim curved neck and blue-grey coat lending grace and beauty to the lonely shore.

SUNDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 27, 1988

The breeze is balmy,
belying the season.
High clouds hide the horizon,
and the sun must soar
before it tops them in the southeast.

As it does, to the west,
a double rainbow springs up,
its feet in the surf,
its crown glowing
high above the dune.

Its neon ribbon,
rather than after a storm, comes before.
A black line of clouds rolls in from the west,
shrouding the lake
and snuffing the brilliant arc.

The front brings cold stinging rain
and the scent of snow,
but in the window of remembrance
the rainbow will burn bright
to warm the heart when winter comes.

APRIL MORN

Only the day before, the lake had been a lake once again,
free of its thick winter mantle of ice
except for a few lonely blocks,
so far out they seemed to float on the horizon.

But nature seemed unwilling to loosen its wintry grip,
for this morning, after a clear night
with temperatures barely below freezing,
the bay was covered with a thin, clear skin of ice.

Gulls that yesterday had noisily splashed offshore,
this morning warily walked on the freshly congealed surface,
and a stone tossed into the lake
penetrated the pane of ice like a shot,
while the thin sheet reverberated with the twang of a guitar string.

As the sun rose, the ice began to creak and strain, as if
uttering a last feeble protest at giving up the lake to other
seasons. Along the shore shards like glittering glass,
thin and brittle as mirrors,
grated into the sand, snapping and sparkling.

Slowly but steadily, the warming sun began to clear
patches of open water until suddenly the ice was gone again,
as though it had never been,
and the waves whispered a promise
that spring, in fact, was here.

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