Atitlàn



It was only thirty years 

ago when the lake lay limpid 

silver below Solola filled with snow

capped volcanos pointing

into unplumbed depths of famous 

Lake Atitlàn



while seven small villages reached 

weekly by the postal boat

ringed the placid mirror

beyond the reach of change

living the ancient traditions

of the Maya



a single narrow plank on stilts 

pointed out into the lake waiting

and on the grey coarse sand

three women sat all day selling

oranges to each other gossiping

then left content



today thick stinking weeds and plastic 

clog the nets and fish are dying 

small and oil slicks the water

trailing tourist pleasure boats and

new hotels of Panahachel 

foul the water 



and the seven villages are haven

to stoned outsiders.

© Michael Kearsely