For you, the lake is closed today
In your fragile shell of painted wood
You would ignore our authority, if you could
For that reason, we are turning you away
There is danger in spontaneity
It opposes a sense of order and that apart
Rules are the enemies of art
What if everyone ‘just turned up’ this way?
We have placed spikes on the high wall
There can be no weightless glide
To freedom, in defiance of bureaucracy
The grim bastion cannot fall
For you, the lake is closed today