Gee Whillikers, Gang.
I’d forgotten the levels of stress that accompany teaching kids. I work in the mornings, and find various ways to relax in the afternoons, and then plan for the next day in the evenings, then sleep. Luckily, my kids are (quite) well-behaved), and seem to enjoy learning new things. It has been a while since I last taught kids on any kind of scale. Certainly not 15 at once. So it’s all good practice, and now I know them better, week 2 should be easier.
That’s the explanation for the absence of a Midweek post, and I recommend you anticipate the same thing happening this coming week as well. And then the one after that. And then I’ll be more talkative again.
I’m going to through up a poem now that’s gone through…. a lot…. of drafts. It was originally three separate half-poems that I’ve stuck together for having a common theme – hope you can’t see the joins. I’ve looked at it again this week, and while it remains imperfect, compared to it’s earlier versions, it’s looking pretty good. Still, I reckon what it needs is a little more condensing, and for me to be less flowing with the adjectives. Tell me what you think.
It’s based on swimming in the River Glaslyn, a place we used to go on family holidays, a place I’ve actually managed to find a picture of. It was an hour drive there, and nearly an hour walk to the spot in question, but we loved it, and I expect I’ll return there someday.
Diving into the Glaslyn
The smooth rock glistened with foot-pats,
breeze brisk, sun bright, water clean,
so clear and fresh we can see the bottom.
Running up for another dive,
you press down upon the rock’s edge for just a second
…heel raised, coiled like a spring,
your whole weight compressed upon
the fore part of the feet against the rock
…before you launch, arms forward.
Time rushes into the splash, the cold fingers of the river
parting for you, embracing you,
making you gasp, the water chaste and untouched,
and you disappear in an eruption of glistening light
sunk into bold white froth.
Soon you surface through the youthful torrent,
shaking your head,
hair wet and laughing like a seal,
then we kick down for some choice pebbles,
into the translucent world of dappled shadow below.
Behind the cries and noises of play,
your mark remains upon the rock, unnoticed,
your human imprint upon the solid stone,
until the sun’s lazy heat washes it dry,
one by one, the toe marks fade, vanish,
and the world returns to how it was before.