Looking at the lake from our cottage can give much different impressions depending on the light. I would write those down as they struck me and combined below they provide a poem that may well grow with time.
The lake was like a silver chalice catching the flickering candlelight of the banquet hall.
The lake was like chainmail armour rippling with every breath in the low angled evening sun.
The lake was like sheet metal rolled out on the shop floor to be trimmed and formed, catching the glare of the halogen lights hanging above the din.
The lake was flinty in the fading light, reflections desperately holding their final breath, waiting to be resurrected by the coming dawn.
The lake was a pewter mug fully glowing on some darkened table .
The lake was glowering, reflecting a menacing sky.
The lake called, gentle, soft, glowing in the morning mist – come, slip into my embrace, there is magic here.