Time flows like the waters, rippling in the breeze,
that surround this old hall on an island. Sometimes
the flow is obvious, as in the little beck that enters
the lake at the top end, sometimes hidden - a secret
world beneath your feet - as in the stone outlet tunnel,
rumoured to be the haunt of giant pike and a roost for
bats. Sometimes the flow - and time - seem to have stopped
altogether, as in the quiet headwaters, fringed by reed
and willow, where you could imagine yourself deep in
the countryside, or even in the backwaters of the River
Essiquibo, which Waterton explored.
A stone cross in the wood at the top end of the lake
marks his grave.