Thursday, 28 July 2011

the ladies pond

A very quick poem about today. I have a new favoured place.


There are
just women, in the pond.

No butter-slathered shrieks, no
exploratory toes dipped and
leapt back,
breasts punting
like volleyballs in the sun.

There is a dearth of giggles.

The heads glide the surface
like boules from the palms
of French pensioners,
leaving a wake in the sand.

These bodies churn bugs for the
ducks to lunch upon,

but we ignore the ducks,
as we ignore the elbow tug
of the working world.

In the water, we are all penguins,
belly-first on the ice.

We dive like coins dropped
in wishing wells, float like
oak leaves suspended in puddles,

and before the oily cold seizes my skin
to demand I towel and clad and
emerge, before this

I am a giddy seal, pirouetting,
drunk on the lard
which keeps me afloat.

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