To the lake of my aloneness
No river flows
I am contained by mountains of my making.
Without wave I wait, wanting; but no heron
comes and no swan goes.
The day delivers its indifferent glances;
Night passes, merely pausing to adjust
an artificial rose.
I hold nothing but reflections;
I wake to my own shallows, I sleep soundly
without repose.
Will no appled boy paddle in me?
Has no one a boat to float on me?
Must I quench my thirst, drink myself up
and drown?
-Ronald Duncan, 1961 (no 3 from The Solitudes)-
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