Heavens glassy mirror holds captive twenty swimmers;
Driven on by unseen forces, riding on a crown of ripples.
Golden maiden's arms are stretched and weeping in mocking gesture;
Casting off feathery white ships onto waters;
Her hair gently waving at the parting;
Reaching down breaching reflections of the heather laydened mountains
fold;
Capturing the fleeting clouds and cradling the home of the laureate.

All that is has stopped to supple from the beauty of this moment;
But this time has no captor, no owner, no designer;
Only swimmers slowly waltzing;
Among floating cherry leafs and dandelion umbrellas.
Long white stockings capped with onyx rise above the surface;
The surface of illusions heart, strumming the strings of an invisible harp;
That coax an ancient Celtic melody calling soft and low.

Weaving in and out the Queen's cue goes;
Never looking back to see cracked mirror's seven years of lament.
What perfect artists brush could emulate the splendor;
Of this that is unpaintable;
Nor words from this pen would capture;
But failing, plus a thousand time to hold the truth;
Of what the eyes are privileged to consume
And what the heart endeavors to renew at each remembrance of the
moment.
Twenty swimmers cast tender wakes;
Disappearing apparitions from a summers lazy dream;
Disappearing on the horizon;
Into the expanse of Wyndamere.