Cold. Still. Crows caw, drops drip, eras echo. The lake speaks of nothing, but recalls everything. Memories mirrored in its movements. Whispers of whims in the willows. The expressions of the things that have lived and died around it - their bitter rage, their cold solitude, their dark turmoil. And though through unspoken scrutiny it claims it is but a reflection of what it witnesses, the observed are nonetheless touched by the observations. As particles act against their own laws under the human eye, so too do the tidings shift with the echoes of the lake.
Paddy Dobson
2nd January 2022