This Place Is Not A Place

This place is not a place
When grey clouds engulf the whole of it

It is a world of its own existing
Untroubled by man’s stories

From here the coniferous line across the lake
Is but a slightly darker shade of grey

And all things faintly shine 
Of a grey glistening light

Raindrops softly bend
One leaf ; then another

My hut is a drum on which
The sky shuffles its fingers

The hours have stopped —
All things suspended

I’m no longer sure 
Which one is floating

The boat
The lake

The clouds
The forest

Or myself