After Swimming

 

The skin on the back of my hand

Smells faintly of chlorine

I showered after swimming

But not very well, it seems

I think, subconsciously, I want

To hold on

To that sharp, clean tang 

It’s the smell of Saturday morning

Eccleshill baths, 

Me and John

Enjoying the present that became the past

After swimming, upstairs in the cafe

Weak, burnt, bitter hot chocolate

In thin, pale brown, plastic cups

Table top Galaxian machines

If we still had 10p pieces

The echoey cacophony of the pool below

Cannonball jumps and shouts and whistles

A noisy shallow end sloping away

To the quiet abyss of the deep end

I only went up on those diving boards once

A climb of 19 cold, metal rungs

That brought me out half a mile above the pool

I could not jump

And I was too scared to climb back down

I must have, I guess, eventually.

Here I am

The smell of chlorine on my hands

Strong and real

A tiny boy with all of Saturday before him

An older man

Drifting back to deep water

Hot chocolate

And sheer, undiluted joy