The shadows of the oak trees
are broken into blobs.
The wind rushes over the surface
and pondweed carpets the lake floor.
Ravens go in their autumnal circles.
I dawdle here a little
as my house is empty.
Its walls are my companions.
My usual chair tries to comfort me.
The fridge hums to fill the cool space.
I listen to the waves through the boughs
and I say yes to my worries:
a written reprimand from my stiff boss,
a brush off text from a supposed date,
an unexpected bill arriving at my door.
Then a sudden brightening,
the sun glistening on the lake
and the ripples criss-cross over and over.
(Published in the Blue Nib issue 38, June 2019)
Diarmuid Fitzgerald 