~ Peter Gilchrist ~


                   Spat!

My proud canoe assessed the wave. She preened;
escaping strands of sunlight caught the breeze
that kissed her crest. Adrenaline careened
around my veins and trembled through my knees.

She dipped towards me, reaching out to greet
my bow and lift me to her curl. We danced
in close communion, coupled and complete,
as lovers dance, their whispered words enhanced
by reciprocity.

My paddle missed a step.
Recrimination spat!
She spurned me to her floor, a tangle of emotion and surprise.

Her cold disdain washed over me.

A thousand pounds of fury pressed my chest.
I fought to get my feet against a rock and push for air.
She cuffed me down.
I tumbled in her boil, a supplicant to water's power.

Motion slowed.
A will to live uncoiled.
A calm, detached awareness took control.

My life-vest worked against me in the wash.
I slipped the knots and jettisoned its bouyancy.

I clawed for depth along her gravelled bed
and found the undercurrent,
a tunnel leading out beneath her swell.

I burst above the surf.
Her bonds of rage flung off as liquid arcs of light.
A fetid bilge erupted from my lungs.
I gasped repeated gulps of air.

At last, my breathing slowed.
My shaken hull reclined, subdued and wallowing,
a quarter mile downstream.

A breath, perhaps the river's own, escaped
the summer's lips and breathed a soft lament
through swaying grass along the shore. I draped
like driftwood in the calming stream, content
to feel the air against my face and float
in humble penitence towards my boat.



Copyright 2003 Peter Gilchrist


Peter's website: Go With The Flow

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