LAKE HOUSE
- Mar 14
- 1 min read
By Aidan Ashton
in the deepening grey
of a solitary winter
the house waits
by the water
holding us
within its teeth.
it is a cruelty
to call it a house;
it is a hulking shadow
torn from bones of the world
and forced into the falsehood
of a home;
slate excised
from fractured mountains;
beams dragged
from mutilated forests;
all laid to rest
beside the drowning darkness
of the lake.
it is not meant for us.
the wilderness lingers still
within its halls
like the scent of blood
on damp earth
too old
and too wild
and too vicious
to love us
as a house should love.
it loves us
as the icy waters
of the lake
love the soft tissue of the lungs;
as a raven
loves a corpse’s eyes
as the cold mountains
and the dark forests
have always loved those travellers
who would lay themselves down to sleep
within their mouths.
it is hungry;
the hollow throat
of a world long-burned
suspended in the act
of swallowing us
whole.