Gravity

I really enjoy my Sunday morning swim. Swimming makes me feel so free - once you settle in, movements become almost automatic, and my chattering mind slows to the rhythm of the strokes.  That's when it goes well! This morning wasn't quite so restorative.


On creaky knees I creep past the learners' pool,
Descend the steps,  surrender to warm buoyancy,
Begin the slow journey towards my target:
Thirty lengths. 

To help me count, they're broken down to various strokes:
Four lengths breast,  one back,  four breast,  one front crawl.
It helps,  but still I'm often left wondering if I've missed one
And add another on. 

Five lengths in,  my knees begin to unknot,
Ten,  and the strokes come easy,  without thought. 
It's tempting to forget the daily struggle 
In the joy of movement. 

At thirty,  euphoric and ahead of my self-alloted time, I turn,
Decide to do another set of ten.  At thirty four, from nowhere
My knee is gripped by a sudden breath-denying heat.  I curse;
Push on for thirty five. 

My leg refuses to play ball,  becomes a dead weight, 
Drags uselessly behind in a graceless doggy paddle. 
I haul myself from the warmth, back into the cold hearted truth 
Of gravity. 

© Copyright 2021. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved 

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