As my long neck gracefully touches down on the water, gentle splash and then a silence reigns. 

All around the mist is misplaced, echoing of shells, blue like seas, but then a scream, shimmering like glaze.

Such a shameful cry from out of the deep, guttural and violent, shaking out through the leaves. 

‘Who is calling?’ I ask, my black eyes peering through the gloom. My feathers are ruffled, my peace festooned.

‘It is I, your love’ says the voice, like pond weed, entwined and truly sodden. 

‘No, you’re mistaken’ I reply. My love is buried at the bottom of this god forsaken lake.

Can a ghost have a voice but no form? This one seemed determined, my heart raced, but perhaps just out of scorn?