The Copper Lake

copper-lake

On Snowdon’s craggy slopes we found the copper lake stained vivid blue
With discharge from the nearby mines, so colourful it seemed untrue
Beneath the murky duvet of the clouds that cloaked the peaks in black,
As though the water had been Photo-shopped. We turned and headed back
Down loose stone tracks that split and wound where sheep had scarred the tumbling scree,
Then realised that we were lost, and, being kids, began to scream
At one another, worried most about the trouble we were in.
The night had almost drowned the slopes in darkness when we found the inn,
While overhead, its searchlights focused like some wartime prison tower,
The helicopter chopped the stars in slices. Time to face the hour
Hughes, accept the blame for this. And there, both scowling in the door,
My parents stood, with looks that spoke of punishments and years of chores
That stretched into the future and beyond. This was the one mistake
That wouldn’t go unpunished as the air turned bluer than the lake.

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