A mist blankets the water, shrouding it from me.
The watery sun cannot yet penetrate this velvety cover.
Ghostly wings break through when, without a sound,
ducks rise and fly across the lake
A craggy outcrop sits up high, with a tree-hidden
bench on which to sit and gaze and gaze and gaze.
I can hear the lapping of the water below, where
in memory of others who have loved this place
Dew makes a sparkling cloth on the grassy path.
The air is still damp and without warmth.
There is nothing but the grey and silver.
No insects are awake to buzz or dart about me,
I am quite alone in a silent, still and soft land.
The quiet is broken by the call of a gaggle of geese
returning for breakfast.
Soon hoards of people will arrive to admire this view.
They will break the surface of the water with dipping oars
But for me, for now
It is early in the morning, the quietest time.