A Creaking Blue Door Poem by Mark Heathcote

I recall a lake, waters emerald.
Sunlight glinting, and I'd sit like Tom Sawyer
In nearly every corner, a school of fish.
I'd watch pine trees swaying tall and pencilled.

I'd see fat carp in groups of three and four.
Move with the ease of summer clouds that had
now become unaccustomed to downpours
and recall the old fishing hut, table plaid.

It's lime green, with boards and a creaking blue door.
I recall kingfishers darting, side by side.
How they would plunge and then suddenly soar
I was in [heaven] till insecticides

That crop sprayer flew over, killing
off all the fish, which meant no revenue.
The fishing hut got hauled down, a clearing-
Made trees fall like some God had gone achoo!

A heartbreak evident in daylight.
Gloomily, that's how I recall this place.
Squatting lakeside is like being graveside.
A feeling that all [heaven] had been defaced.