By The Lockside, Slowly

Like slow-rolling magma hardening,
Green water slews and bubbles
And subsides.
Sluices open,
Gates closed,
Beneath the ivied mill and the elderflowers,
Water finds its own level.

And if I were free and still of spirit,
And if I was someone else,
Then I would fall.

I would let go, and my limp body
Would strike the water sideways,
And then I would breathe, rise up
And go under.

Eyes closed, I would breast down
Through the dark, through the cold,
And I would reach for the bottom.

There, my fingers in the silt,
I would open my eyes,
And through the smarting I would see
Just beyond me, hanging,
The place where I belong.

Late, gasping, I would surface
By the bank where the pale pink roses grow,
And I would skull, exhausted,
Gazing at the boats, half-hidden.
Tugs and barges would pass me;
Narrowboats and kayaks;
Cruisers, yachts and rowing eights.

Who is this? They would ask.
Who is this, who treads to find his level?
And why does he not
Swim?

Summer 2005