THE POOL
The pool was more or less a bagatelle
Despite its pumps and pipes and ad-hoc stock
A cheapjack blue within a rough stone shell
Shabby costume jewel of Languedoc.
Ten metres long, a mere half-dozen strokes
Of breathy crawl to carve a hand-strewn wake
Each length an overtaken drain evokes
The body’s needs, imagination’s brake.
But pools – all pools – enclose an inner space
That holds the swimmer like an ambered fly.
Seen from within the water’s silvered face
Casts back a diamond’s faceted reply.
A gesture from a bubble-beaded hand
Reaching to launch more bubbles from below
As active forms from this unlikely band
Of prism-managed light in cut glass show.
Between these metal plated surfaces
The inner pool takes gravity head on
Suspends the swimmer in near weightlessness
The hinted ecstasy of mass foregone.
