Writing on the Wall

Five early morning swimmers
glide the pools liquorice lines.
Silky silent lane-sequencing
disturbed only by splash, dip, lift
and the pool-clock’s tick,
its second-hand red arrow marking time.
Blinking chlorine one glances up,
eyes focus, mind fixed on speed and future gold.
His lithe form shimmers below,
above smooth arms
graceful as a swans neck
divide water,
curved arcs that cut a torpedo channel.
His body on the turn a coiled spring
pushes off with snakes ease
sends ripples to my lane,
his travelling waves reflect wood clad walls,
ceiling pipe-work,
the tiles ocean blue
then,
wash up on my lips.

From down the slim field edge
their voices come.
Through the mean hedge,
yellow leaves
and slimy caterpillar stench,
to the quiet back-road where I stand
at rest straddling my bike.
A rhythmic chop-chop,
between picked up conversation
carried above lines of blunted necks.
Beyond are tight spaced round buds,
rolled out, full as roses in receding rows.
Short sentinels that regiment the moves
of two figures like ‘the angelus’, faces low lit,
clothes dirt-grey, they move in unison;
bow, bend, cut, de-leaf
cold weighty winter balls,
that unite them with a rugby throw and
catch in frost-bit hands.
Each cabbage cracks its green scull
against a head-scrum that fills the rising crate.
 

Beverley Fry. 7th November 2010

Geese call above wires.

Sun-ripens apples now picked,

I bake you your pie.