(Clear waters )

My dancing days to the tune of an orange sun, setting at dawn; at the lakeside are over. Moments I spent sitting on a large white stone reminiscing; smoking away a week’s turmoil; during weekends telling tales of a past that once was; are still embroidered in my thoughts.

Once it was a shore of clear waters; waves singing in fresh breeze hit our breaths with aura. The serenity of a moment captured by the flick of our retina; we could swim through the tides. We could fish out our livelihoods from such clear waters. This was just the ideal place.

Boats raced; as we chased away time; paddling alongside one another. Neath the waters creatures lived. As they swam their lungs heavy with breaths; hippos stared closely at the rhythmic happiness and smiles that laced our beings.

Just when the sun hovered directly above us; lunch was calling. The aroma of fried Tilapia lifted our spirits; having an appetite wasn’t an issue. Green kales savored our souls. The view of it with a plate of ugali made me want to stay young forever. I could replenish my starvation.

At sun down; reflection of sun rays on clear waters reverberated; it spread across in a beam. The colour of rainbow on shore attracted birds to perch through. Shadows stood erect and tangled; the silhouette was unendingly beautiful. A dark orange dawn; dimly lit by a ball of orange sun lasted a moment.

All these have rescinded into a plateau of green plantation. A foreigner might mistake it for a stadium. All that’s left are fossils of fish we ate some years back. All that’s left are broken stalls that once stood erect; they were the shades which we ate beneath.
The beauty at sun down is no more. No light reflects back; for the shore is covered with plants. Abandoned Boats lay broken, ageing, rotting timber; stuck between the hyacinth. Nobody paddles anymore. Nobody races anymore.

Fishing livelihoods from clear waters is no more. Sex for Fish that once was in abundant is no more. The breeze that once was fresh; now exits as a fragrance of marijuana stench. The smoke of it lies at the other end.
At *Hippo Point* clear waters are no more.
Meanwhile; here I sit sipping vanilla cream; her head resting on my shoulders; reminiscing about *clear waters*

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As written by Phill Ibsen ( Master Of Descriptions )