Water Striders

We are water striders on the August lake,
with wine and tin whistle below the flapping
tattered canvas of your secondhand boat.
A gasp of wind trapping the sail in a self conscience billow.
Snapping in the battered slapping, the bow cuts the broken
surface of the great blue eyed lake, it cries out in a spray
that sprinkles its shallow hull refreshingly, then sobs a splash.
The skiff embraces and gives up to the wounded wet,
begins to sink; now we are swimming.
Our lunch floats momentarily;
the waves swallow it.
We grab for bobbing seat pads, the craft
runs away on its side with the wind.
We kick, floating in a tearful eye, the sky is charcoal grey,
the day
has succumbed to lightning.
Looking at me, you say you are sorry, 
but have to go,
you swim 
away.
I am a cork in liquid fodder, paddling for shore is useless
and it strikes me as comical;
is this all there is? It’s astronomical,
the drifting up and down,
bitter water holds a lonely otter.
My laughter bubbles, burps from deeper 
than the bottom depths, is sharper,
ingested by the wind, is blown 
to where your boat has scarpered.
Lightning tickles distant peaks
thunder bleats, electric, alive.
Is this strung out flickered light,
all we see while we survive?
A craft appears, the coastguard comes,
someone looking on the lake through glass
saw the swimmer’s splash, they picked
him up and found me drifting farther out.
They tell me I am lucky 
to be plucked right from the swell,
assure me I am doing well.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s