Wet yet spring in step, hopeful yet of late Spring
A lapping spring thought imaginary, hidden since history
No mad king’s lap-spread map could bring you to its brink
Only chance, happenstance, incidence or accidents provide access to the relaxing idyll
where they stoop to drink and linger a little, a little thing
The ring of the lake now a breakable mirror rink
The drowned, the gilled, the guilty; alike encased in hazy, scraped crystalline ice
And old slowgoing trees finally bowl over.
Alchemisland 
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