Zurich Lake

On the pleasure boat,
I ask my uncle – whose dark eyes
are contemplating hills – the german word for lake.
He writes it for me, absent minded:

“Zurichsee -
the see as z.“

‘The Zurich-zee is tooled glass,
it’s printed cellophane.
The Zurich-zee is silver fish,
slashed brail, misted zinc.’

My uncle sees a gliding gull, small castle,
at Richterschill – a blue and yellow tram.

‘The Zurich-zee is silver milk,
sleek bands of graying hair.
The Zurich-zee is spilt yellow,
watercoloured pale.’

My uncle makes the sounds
for places as we pass:

“Wadensail.”
“Richterschill.”
“Staf.”

I chew the pen and mark them down.
Like the ink is made of lake.
My uncle, words.