Ken's Poetry

Juanita Bay

The fidgeting surface
of a still lake,
the dabble of sky
and wriggled trails
of house and boat and quay.

Breathing’s shallow rhythm
beneath the swell,
pulse beat measuring
memory’s trails
in bubbled time.

Beneath the surface skim
a space uncluttered
by life’s turbulence,
distance etched
on pale smoke-grey.

Flowing but still,
reflecting distorting
the past’s play,
bouncing bright sunlight
on new bow wave day.