The Swimmer

 
 The Swimmer

He decided he would swim.

Always a swimmer.
Though no Burt Lancaster now,
The pools of life had been rich
And deep and as blue
As the ocean he loved.
No complaints.
No anguish.
No defeat.

His medals shone from their cabinet
Bright as the day he'd won them.
He decided he would wear the gold,
On the day he swam.

He would rise early
Wheel his chair to the beach
Perhaps when gentle sunlight
Sparkled on the water to caress his
Back as he swam.
A new day dawning
Over the sands.

Or gentler at night in the sea
Swimming below a full moon
And silent stars.
Companions to guide him
No sound but the lapping of waves
Cradling him.

Jagged rocks below his villa
Beckoned each day
Beneath his window.
Invoking irksome thoughts of spilled blood.

                              He decided he would swim.

While there was still strength in his bones.

'Soon,' he promised himself.

It would be as before his beginning
The cycle complete
First to the egg
And one in a million in life
Fastest and best in the water.
Always a swimmer.
Rivers of life should run down to the sea.

 *

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