Though I don’t like to put my head under,
I want to follow the thin nylon line
that tethers the marker in place;
finger-tap the concrete block anchoring
the buoy to the lake bed.
I would continue into the soft-plock mud,
stir depths of silt to cloud about us like the waste of years.
We tread water. We ripple out
through surface spiders and the shit of ducks.
We watch the steady drill lines
of serious swimmers – capped and suited
for their three stern miles around the course.
Black bodies sleekly purposeful under frivolous-coloured tow floats.
We are casual, we came without.
We discuss what we would do.
“I would hold your face up. I’d shout.”
Penny Blackburn lives in the North East of England and writes poetry and short fiction. Her publications include pieces online in Bangor Literary Journal, Atrium and Picaroon and in print with Paper Swans Press, Reader’s Digest and Maytree Press.