LAGO COLORADA

In a six-bed room four thousand metres high, stony cold,
There are three Norwegians, one Austrian, a Catalan
And myself. From my bed I can see a lake whose water
Is red. Not blood red or brick red or mud red. Just purest
Red. And on it’s surface, somewhere out of sight, dally pink
Flamingos, impervious to Antarctic winds strafing
Their surreal home. This has been my final Bolivian
Day. That I should have spent it driving through the most barren
Of deserts, accompanied by a UN division,
To arrive at a red-watered lake, comes as no surprise.

12.10.04