Oxford Bridges

The sky is an ocean tonight,
a spotted line of white, like
washed up waves which fizz
in foamy baths of salt and air,
breaking across the sunset as
a single jet leaps from sea to sky:
shy, small fish come to sacrifice
itself on the never-ending
altar of burnished air before her,
standing on a railway bridge,
buffeted by late winterwinds,
turning its tail to speckled gold
as the fishjet tries to fly from
the red and black to come.

Dream Dolpins

He slides through the sea,
slip of a boy,
stroking his natural element
chlorine and salt sticking
in gyms and oceans,
flippers and dolphins
of his dream-world,
sand and tiles swirling,
stirring up memory:
the child he was.

The child he is,
Peter Pan of the pool
pulling pirates and
tick-tock crocs from
a wild imagination
where waves and wind,
coaches and competition,
come together chasing
his never-never land
of love and long summers.

What is to dream?
To be who we once were
way back when we won,
riding waves with
singing swimmers
on wild coastlines with
strong currents sweeping
the dreamer out to sea,
sweet surrender of a
small child’s soul.

Sing, my youth,
found in seas again,
for what are dreams
but reminders of how
to grow old with grace?
How to glimpse
who we were,
who we are:
single swimmers surfing
wild waves filled with life.