No Swan Lake

The river flows slowly,
Becoming a lake,
No swans swim there,
The lake is black,
Darker than pitch,
The hat of a witch,
Left floating in the tides
until the land beckons,
With its seductive finger
pointing to within,
"come to me, come",
Come settle your sticky, poisonous death,
with an insurance claim

William Calderwood Wallace

(C)2001 William Wallace.