I don’t know, where does it go?
All that dwindling H20.
Wished in wells, soft on windows,
steeped in rivers, out at sea.
Wet behind the ears, I find my element.
Toes, ankles, knees. Then submerged
in delightful, skin-tingling surprise –
wild and welcome every time.
Crawling through chlorine, weightless
in water, take breath at four strokes.
Wild swimming with coots, on their terms.
Thames Water, like puffins,
have outrageous bills
but are not as endearing.
Splish, splash, splosh.
The pitter-patter on panes clears the fog.
Another night of medicinal fodder
with a windswept ambition –
to make a meal of it,
to make a river of oneself.
It’s April and the newts are swimming,
with the goldfish, in the pond.
They have been wintering
under the laurel leaves.
Mother of memory, spring showers
remember ghost dreams of Arctic ice
and whale-song.
Sun sinks in, all the gold threads of it
weaving into waves.
Collaborative poem, Poets for the Planet, Marine Studios, Margate
Contributors: Cheri Allcock; Claire Collison; Berni Cunnane; Jenny Fleming; Nadin Hadi; Eugene Homewood; Sue Johns; Rachel Reid; Jacqueline Saphra; Jessica Taggart Rose.