Rocombe Lake by Marc Woodward

I scream a stone across the ice
just where the Jones’s fat boy fell.
The ice was thin, it swallowed him,
his frightened face; his echoed yell.

I showed the copper up the lane
but didn’t follow to her door.
I only wanted to be gone
and skate on frozen ponds no more.

We kept away from Rocombe Lake,
found other hobbies would suffice.
Now on this bitter New Year’s Day,
I scream a stone across the ice.

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