They spent their summers by the lake house. Not so much swimming in the lake so much as staring at it. Not really from the lake shore, so much as from atop the rain tank perched meekly on a tower to the left of the mild cabin that huddled by said lake shore.They would pull up a sound-box and sit it on a plank traversing the radius of the tank and throw some drinks into the teasingly cold water. Music would radiate from their nest, wafting over the whispering waters, tickling the trees and glinting back at the sun.

They would slink back and forth singing and chanting:

“The boat is | be gin ning to | leak a gain.

The boat is | be gin ning to | rock.

We stepped on the| boat, full |  kno wing that,

Even tua lly it would | stop.”

I would sit hidden amongst them. Under ruffly breath, breathily whispering, murmuring, mumbling:

I am not an Island, though I was in the sea.

I was not, I am not, I am a buzzing bee.

I eloped with an urchin, though I was married to the wind.

Slept on through earthquakes of sound and echoes.

Floating has now taken on; a thicker coat, velvet gloves and an ironic wink.

I dream of green blue planets, though I never learnt how to sing.

Not even softly, not in the shower and never in the Spring.

I ride upon the storm-clouds, though I didn’t see the sands.

Kept going through the night, in wait for this to begin.

Should have known,

it began.

.