The Swimmer

In turgid water with arms outstretched,
each determined stroke a bold act to
move within the grip of its cold embrace,
trying to temper the body in its motion.

His naked buttocks quiver in the dark
chilled sea; an endless soaking purgatory.
From squeak of dawn he has waited with
keen determination for this ritual hour.

Can you see him dive deeply into the
darkness, eyelids closed tight like a clam
as he travels the path of least resistance,
a silent fear of lost direction his only thought.

Tendrils of kelp torment his pale flesh,
their elongated swirls make his efforts
a sad imitation of the sea’s inhabitants
as they tease this inept, late-come mariner.

He has baptised himself in the ancient mother
with scant regard for her fluid validation
while he travels through her pulsating womb,
awaiting the chance to crawl into to a new life.

Blurred vision allowes shards of virid sunlight
guide him towards the sanctuary of ancient
granite, warmed and awaiting his shivering,
lumbering form; he slither slowly ashore.

Droplets of living moisture evaporate upon his
invigorated self, allowing those other travellers
begin their own cycle of life on this strange orb, as
did the ancestors of all through the mercy of time.


Adrian Kavanagh

Travel So Unwisely Undertaken

When all is trouble and time
is taken from within our grasp,
it is only then we can fly to
the farthest reaches of ourselves

And find that place within,
which opens to our own world
of truth and quiet understanding.
A travelling clock ticking forever is

The untimed, jumbled, countless thoughts
painting mindless pictures we are
least likely to see or comprehend
until we stop moving and observe,

Quite clearly that those images
too have moved on and left us
bewildered by the constant travel
we have so unwisely undertaken.

Viewfinder

At 18 I was gauche, looking for a destination
Not a tram ride to St Kilda.
My father and I, both innocents abroad,
Woke after our first night overseas
To a different light, an out-of-sync perspective
And hopefully, heartbreakingly,
The beginnings of wisdom.

Years on I remember most the air–
Aromas from the city at dawn. Thin elusive wisps
Stay with me, lingering exotically
Until in some suburban street
Passing, say, a local takeaway they rekindle
And fill my mind with heat and markets,
The sweaty crush of foreign bodies
And sweet desire for saffron-scented skin.

I rarely travel these days. Back home and cloistered,
My father long dead,
I look at faces in Polaroids and hope those few
Who planned their own escape
Survived the journey. Too late for me.
Tonight I eat my fragrant Vindaloo
And mourn my lost love, a young boy
I glimpsed once in a crowd in Karachi,
And never forgot.


Cathy McCallum