Coming from beds of deep secret roses,
crimson velvet with swoony smell,
I stand by the lake bewitched.
The white, the black and the golden carp
glide silently under the water
at will like thoughts in the early morning
before they are organised
or memories still half submerged
in murky depths. They are so many.
Quick-slipping, their big bodies,
charged with graceful energy,
have the kick of an unborn child,
a person swimming into consciousness
with powerful emotions of the soul.
Dinah Livingstone: Poems of Hampstead Heath and Regent's Park