The Dunmore Rock

I promise, as July ends this is my last moon and spoon about either Vermont or Lake Dunmore (for this year anyway). Yet here is an interesting character, for as all it's bliss and terror is ascribed by us it is deserving of poetic immortality.

The Dunmore Rock

I know whereof, in depths unknown
  up from the brown green a thing renown
  that mocks how mountains rent the level sky
In the mouth of South cove it tickles the serene lake,
  radio waves it casts in droves
  from the head, that stone pate unseen,
  except those said ripples sent from what’s hid below,
  an immobile coursing pretender of muskrat or monster,

Somewhere is a picture, an old sixties polaroid,
  of Uncle Charlie who stepped out of his boat
  and stood upon that rounded rock,
  mocking he can walk on water…
Oh Charlie! Are you Jesus?
  the places you will go to tease us!

Yet I know the Dunmore rock in a different vein
  it’s lurking deception and danger just the same
As you run the mid lake eastside, far past Watherhouses,
There, beyond the emerging point,
  before you pass to port of the island,
Tip up your engine, pull up your dagger,
  for you may not see it,
That circle of wavelets gets lost in the breeze,
  and you must keep watch, do not run through at ease,

I of course, when I pass through, must find it,
  it vexes me, it’s my Moby Dick,
How like Odysseus Sirens or the Gorgon Herself ,
  I am compelled to wonder and stare,
See the jagged scars from it’s tearing of hulls,?
  see the white paint dents, with shag lake algae waiving between?
  they invoke the image of shred seal lion meat,
  gore in the jaws of the Great Shark,

No, I do not avoid, I paddle to it,
  I reach out with a kindly hand and I avast me to it’s crown,
Peaceful, I so anchor with this pet rock, 
  for fear abates, phrenology divines a kinder presence,
  you tame manatee, you simple submarine Saracen,
Spirit of the lake, all year I contrive to return,
  to float in your timeless current,
  to offer benedictions at your altar,
  to lap in the waves of your prophesy,

And now our time has come, again, and gone,
Wonderful obelisk, set by the glacier lang syne,
  I must hove on, yet I push off wistful,
My hope we’ve not met our last time