lake view - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The sun set threatening to dip behind the horizon, firstly cascading a prim bombardment of colours that were flung over the sky with terrible alacrity. The receding blue and oranges battled the blackness pushing it away with arms. It shone on the lake below shining its deep depths. The radiant glow scintillated and beamed: the legacy of the sun.
Under blue and sunlit skies, the view was wondrous to behold, for the lake teemed with life. To the chorus of birdsong from the surrounding green bushes, and the sound of carp sucking amongst the flowering lily-pads, mother duck, watchful for the predatory pike, scooped the surface for food, with her young trailing behind like a row of bobbing corks. Dab chicks and coots fed in the safe haven of the reed-beds, whilst flashing green and blue dragonflies hovered above.
But today was damp and bleak, and a light grey mist hung over the lake like a veil. The only sound to break the eerie silence, was the slow methodical beat of its wings, as a lone grey heron passed lazily, and unseen, overhead.
A deep sense of serenity overcame her as she stared in rapture at the expanse of blue that lay before her. Rays of lights danced delicately across the water, birthed from the afternoon sun that both limited her sight and made the view all the more beautiful.
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 the drudge of the land, lapping the grass that is sodden and cast dim by the unbroken cloud of winter, is the lake. It is not beauty. It is not romance. It is water cold and unforgiving under the meanest layer of ice. Come summer time it will sink to a shallow puddle for the insects to breed in, barely sufficient to water the horses of the travellers.
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.
August is brutal but the lake is cool. Away from the shade the insects stay away, lurking a way off in the shadows of the trees – limp leaves, thirsty roots. Even with shades on the lake is a glitter of diamonds, every one of them more valuable than the real thing – those stones that are so common and so rare. The shore is a beach of rock, trucked in from the quarry, rough but an improvement on the mud.
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.