Bath Road, September ‘81

Kicking backwards
across the pool –
two floats beneath my head –
trepidation
turns to terror
when too strong a kick
turns me over.

Flailing
beneath the water,
there is nothing,
whatsoever,
to cling to
and time…
slows…

The surface parts
and Mr Woollaston’s hand
descends;
a silhouette at first,
the detail
gradually focusing,
revealing at last
glimmering strings
of tiny bubbles
caught upon
the reddish hairs
of his freckled forearm,

Bath Road, September ‘81

just before
he catches my wrist
and hauls me
airwards.