The God of the Lake

Comb his hair on the edge
of the coming storm
with a fishbone.
And watches a cork raft with a seagull
feather as a sail and a tin soldier
as a sailor.
And in the meantime from above the Grigna is thawing
and the hieroglyphics of dry slime on rusty rings
and catenaries, hide the ancient coordinates
and wills of occult currents.
The boy dressed in bright colours
stands still on the shore and watches.
He lets in all what the funnel of his eyes can contain.

He has never seen the lake.
He comes from a distant city.
(…)
He has never thrown a stone in the lake.
He comes from a distant city.
The God of the lake now knows the contact is established
and clouds can start clashing.
The tin soldier pilots the raft to
the safest place and ducks sway their
hips away under the yellow dock. Parents call the boy,
who takes a stone
in the rain and puts it in his pocket.
He will take with him the lake.