The lake is the blue green of glacial melt-
water, the mountain, upside-down
on its wrinkled skin, rocked by
our naked plunge.
The fish fry,
little cannibals, nibble my toes
and arms trawl bracelets of weed.
Deeper in, millenniums of dark water
plummet under the blue mayflies that dart
electric above its liquid geology. I feel
the tug of invisible vectors, the chill
of ancient ice.
Skin to skin,
I am fish, trailing weed, a floating leaf,
a sleek apostrophe curving through
the sun’s piercings at the innocent surface.
© Kathleen Jones
I know, I know, I should know better ...... Sunday lunch, wine, and then swimming with no cozzie? At my age? But it was so hot and the lake was so cool and there was no one else there. And what fun it was! Swimming in the wild is so different from swimming in pools, or even the sea. You get a real sense of danger, of being a part of nature. I've just discovered that in Britain it's become a kind of cult and there's a website devoted to it at http://www.wildswimming.co.uk/
The poem is part of the diary in poetry that I began to keep when I first came to Italy last July - it's supposed to be a record of my stay here and I try to write something at least once a week. Not all the poems pass the editor's pencil, but I'm hoping that some of them will be good enough to make into a small collection next year. This one still needs lots of work.
For more poems from around the world please take a look at the Tuesday Poem Hub which you can find at http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.com and check out the contributions in the side bar.