“Show me the boat again Dad?”, I would ask on a sunny summer Sunday. That sunken boat was a great source of fright. As he told the story, my Grandfather was rowing rocks across the lake, and the old boat sank.
I love lakes. Lake water is dark, scary, unfathomable. From the safety of a rowboat I gaze deep into its darkness. Sometimes an errant fluff on the surface or a partly submerged weed will appear. Sometimes a wildly reaching root from a submerged waterlogged stump or a branch from a long-fallen log will suddenly spook up from the translucent depths.
Lilies and weeds grow in shallower areas. The weeds, reaching toward the water’s surface, wave at you from the dark. I used to pick white and pink water lilies and bring them home so Mom could display them in a shallow bowl on the verandah table.
In “Water Lilies” I have tried to show those monuments from under the lake, from under the Lilies.
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