The lake’s waves make sounds:
swoosh, swoosh, swash, swooch.

The wind blows through my hair, past my face:
frough, frough, swough.

Fading orange in the west,
light to clear blue over me.

Haven’t seen a star
in what seems like ages.

Scattered clouds in the west as well.

Where have the colours gone?
Can’t see them but they must be there.
Trees don’t change colour like chameleons.

Van Gogh might have liked this place
in one of his darker periods.

I like it.