The lake view is my salve because of the memories it keeps, that sense of love so safe in rocky peaks.
The view of the lake calms my soul, as if that body of water was as much within me as out there in the cradle of mountains.
The lake view is the only clock this mountain ever needs, for the hue of the water tells all, from moonlit nights to the brightest noon sun.
Green grasses lap at blue waters, as if it is the land that kisses up to the lake, creating a view that breathes.
The lake is the finest of mirrors, never showing exactly what is above, but converting it to a image so beautifully smudged and broken. The weeping willow, the clouds above, all become a Monet – all free for the looking. Sure, it is transient, changing by the day, but that's what makes it all the more precious. I can walk here every day and always it will be both different and the same.
In that land of virescent beauty lay a disc of brightest blue. Like a mirror on the wall it was oval and flat, the surface forever guarded from the winds by the crown of lush hills around. At the edge the land met and carried right on as a perfect reflection. Looking up into the sky and down into the water was just the same. I guess that's why we dwelled there in the water seasons, spring right to late fall. Yet even in the winter we walked the edges under the puffs of our own breath, taking in the denuded trees, that stark freshness that only the coldest season can bring.
The lake is brighter than the colours of our dreams. It is the minerals of the glacier that shine cyan, turquoise, shimmering blues. Agains the greens of the hills we sit as if in the most impossible of paintings, the artist painting with colours he thought would fade in time but never did.
From the window is a what appears to be a lake, though later we discover it is a fjord. The water is movie-star blue – the kind of blue their eyes are. In it the wisps of clouds are reflected just as well as the steep sides of the glacial valley, all greens and greys.