Lake - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
On that sultry day in mid-August the lake was as flat as any mirror. It lay without a ripple in the silver-blue water as if time itself had been frozen. From the tall pines around the edge came not a sound, no movement of branches, no birds calling. Tim had expected that some other campers would be close, but it they were they were sleeping off the heat in a tent or some other shaded place. He snorted to himself, apparently he was the only creature to be dumb enough to be out in this heat-wave. His eyes dropped to the water, clean enough to drink. He bent down with cupped hands and drank, drips falling from his lips, sending ripples in ever widening circles until they disappeared. The taste surprised him, it was missing something. Was it chlorine, fluoride maybe? Whatever it was, he liked it; before his lips had dried his hand was returning with more and he was sorely tempted to wade in clothes and all.
The lake-side air was pungent with the fragrance of jasmine. This was no natural basin filled with melt water, but the luxury addition to a formal garden by an earl with both copious leisure time and money. On his death he bequeathed it to the a charity to run for their benefit. For a small fee tourists and locals alike could escape the traffic and the frenetic movement of people. Jonah stepped closer to the edge and crouched down. From six feet up the surface was an opaque green, but from just two it was clear enough to see the plants and life below the surface. He had expected the highly coloured japanese Koi Carp and he wasn't disappointed, if anything he was impressed. They were huge and numerous, each about as long as his arm. He gazed across the wind-ruffed surface to the lily pads in bloom, their white or magenta petals catching the breeze. He inhaled slowly. Peace. His little piece of heaven in the urban jungle. It was worth the annual membership many times over.
The small path widened into a multicolored beach with every size of rock - from boulders big enough to sit on, to grains that got stuck between your toes. Beyond was a flat lake, the far shore a thin line in the distance growing into a sheer cliff face. In the black watery mirror was only the constellations, starlight so old and young. Wooden boats sent ripples to subside in the deeper water, each moored to the protruding pontoon. As they approached the waterline, he bent down and skimmed a rock - the splash loud in the otherwise silent night and the ripples fading slowly from the poorly thrown pebble. Coniferous trees cast shadows across the shoreline, like the soft blanket he hid under as a child, always feeling safer unseen.
In twilight the surface of the lake was as smooth as black glass, as the stones skipped across the still water the radiating ripples caught the moonlight. After three skips the stone sank, then once again the lake looked like glass and you could imagine walking right out onto it or skidding across the surface in your socks.
Looking through the waters of the lake was like peering though perfect glass, unsmudged by the sticky prints of small children. The stones at the bottom were as many hues of brown and grey as there are on a painter's wheel, likely more. After a few minutes of looking Lila could notice some that were some more reddish or closer to white. The water at the point she stood had a current, it was where the glacial melt water entered from the mountain peak that stood still white capped behind her. The earthen path stretched wide to her left and right making a complete loop around the edge just behind the trees that grew directly on the bank. It didn't matter which way she turned, so she chose to walk with the sun at her back on the way out.
The lake lay silver in the bright light of the noon sun, not a perfect ovoid like a looking glass of old, but irregular like an ink-splat on aging concrete. The rippled water ran right into the crevices, washing the soil from the rocks. Around the edges were pines, chaotic in their spacing but never more than a few feet without a tree. The only sound was the soft whispering of the trees and Ryan's legs splashing as he pulled the kayak into the cool water at the northern bank. To the southern side it looked an easy journey in a couple of hours, but he knew better than most that the headwind would add on at least another hour and tire him more than paddling double the distance on a still day.
The light was already failing when we approached the lake. Instinctively I slapped my arm and it came away red. A smiled to myself, I don't usually catch mosquitos. Then to my horror I realized that I barely could have missed. The insects I just displaced resettled in moments, there wasn't just one there were hundreds. My eyes darted from one limb to the other, each one of them was host to a small army of mosquitos. I swiped at my face and turned tail to run. No midnight rendezvous was worth this, but perhaps Amelia knew it, perhaps this was her idea of a joke.
After the heat and itchiness of the hike the lake looked like a basin a balm. Its water was entirely without motion, no tide brought it up the man-made beach. Despite the relentless sunrays the green-tinged water would be cool, this basin would likely be as deep as the mountains around were tall. Like the ocean, such a large volume heats and cools slower than the land or the air. Lila walked to the edge and sat to remove her boots, but she didn't stop there. In just a few seconds she was skinny dipping and she didn't care who saw. The cool water moved over her skin like a potion, removing the irritation and replacing it with a meditative peace.
On the surface of the lake, distorted by the ruffled water, was my own face. The years have taken a toll, no longer is it a youth looking back at me but a worn older woman. The soft skin that once clung to my bones in attractive slimness is now filled out- not fat, but the face of a mother rather than a daughter. I pick my tired eyes from the surface and take in the lake, beautiful in the post dawn glow. Already there is warmth to the air, today will be hotter than yesterday. I draw in a deep breath of the air that retains the moisture of the night and savour it, by eleven the air will be dry once more, but by then I will be in the air conditioned library.
In the brilliant summer sunshine the lake was a perfect mirror for the mountains that surrounded it. From above that watery world was so clear and perfect it could be another dimension, waiting for someone to dare enter it. But with each toe dipped into it, the ripples distorted that submerged kingdom, locking us into our own, forbidding us entry.
The boat was upon a great lake in the underworld country, a lake of dark blue water, but crystal clear and very beautiful in colour. The second or invisible Aaron sat in the prow and watched the fishes swimming suspended in the clear, beautiful dark-blue water. Some were pale fish, some frightening-looking, like centipedes swimming, and some were dark fish, of definite form, and delightful to watch.
The lake mirrored the sky above, both of them the kind of blue that colours those impossibly bright tourist brochures. Tamara closed her eyes. The breeze that ran unchecked over the rippled surface blew her long bangs from her eyes and brought colour to her usually pale cheeks. Without the distraction of the view she could detect the scent. The moist early summer air was fragranced with the pine trees that circled the lake, growing so close that some had toppled in and others dangles cobra-thick roots into the water. In her hands were stones, one for each of her relatives that had perished in the war. With eyelids flung wide she moved like a cricketer to send them flying into the water one by one. With each splash she shouted a name of one her heart still ached for. When she was done she sat on the sand and waited for the long-away dusk to come...
The lake was green with the reflection of trees.
The lake was surrounded by minor mountains and it sat like the regal crown of the earth.
The lake was ringed with hills and at the ragged shoreline was a tangled mass of gnarled twisted roots writhing down into the water.
Nana would describe the lake as God's looking glass. But to me it would always be Grandpa's larder. He would catch the most splendid rainbow trout there and we would dine on them for Sunday lunch.
The lake was the blue of glacier meltwater, pale with an iridescence not easily forgotten. Hayley stopped too, pausing just like I did, taking a few seconds to process so many hues. Back home blue is blue, it's the side of a bus, a rain jacket or, at best, an opportunistic flower growing where the sidewalk slabs have become uneven enough to trap mud.
The lake was ringed with trees and outcroppings of rock sloped into the cool waters.
The passing storm had washed everything clean and the world smelt fresh and new. I drank in the scents in the dark, his: woodsmoke and musk, a hint of sweat from the road. Then green pine and leaf mould from the forest, whilst the lake itself, the reassuring scents of pondweed and fern.
The lake mirrored the sky above, both of them blue and shimmering. A beautiful view for a Saturday afternoon.
Shimmers moved across the deep green surface as if light itself could be blown by the wind. Rowan dipped her fingers in at the shore only to withdraw them just as fast. The opaque waters were icy even in the shallows.