The Rose Lake

I went to Africa
as a hale old man
in Indian summer.

In low country
with no flamingos
the lake was sudden.

Behind sea-dunes and filaos
salt gatherers filled pirogues
in midday sun

and the whitish-green water
translucent pink.

I wrote an evocation of
the lake in full song. Daybreak
echoed from the sky

horns, rototoms,
wind chords
like evening would come.

When the song ended
the lake dreamt herself

I never went there again,
until the orchestra
sang like the lake to me.

Robert James Berry

If you've any comments on this poem, Robert James Berry would be pleased to hear from you.