An eloquent way of expressing a common act: skipping a stone in a pond. I used pieces of King Arthur’s tale throughout. 

Of all the fair landscapes I have seen, 
None compared to the one I gleaned, 
When I strode upon a Somerset tarn, 
And found my way through 
    The cinnamon fern. 
 
A water-flea circus peppered its surface, 
Which kept the trees in perfect reverse; lo, 
A mirror so deep it could conjure the stare, 
Of a long-legged parched, 
    Arthurian mare. 
 
With a sleepless full moon still out of its bed, 
A childish thought beguiled my head: 
Why not present what’s clearly absent — 
A phonograph of ripples 
    To duly ornament. 
 
Over forth I doubled for a rock at my feet, 
Smooth and light and flat as a sheet; 
With a crooked elbow I sidearm flung it, 
And watch it five times, 
    Resist its plummet! 
 
O’er the water it skipped like a pelican’s run, 
And five circles it left where once there were none; 
Ever widening the cirques did slowly connect, 
Like an enchanter’s steel rings 
    With invisible clefts. 
 
Whom do I owe for this priv’leged rite, 
Of peeping a stone in gravitational spite, 
And the union of wimples laid in its wake? 
Is it you fair Vivien, 
    M’Lady of the Lake?