Beneath the Dead Black Calm
Sept 5 2016


The last swim of the summer
begins in mist
on a cool day.

The sun is late
and getting later.
But there’s a bracing clarity
to this early morning light;
shadowless, and flattening,
so even the small things
seem illuminated.
A still life,
where everything 
has equal weight.

The lake is cold, its surface still.
Bare feet teeter 
on glistening rocks
as we toddle in, and shallow-dive;
a little splash
and bodies vanish
beneath the dead black calm.

It’s like a ceremonial swim, a formal good-bye;
a grateful nod to summer
acceptance that it’s gone. 
But it’s easier, this way;
when the familiar water
feels  unwelcoming,
and the air has the edge of fall.

And now, teeth chattering
goose-bumped bodies wrapped
in big absorbent towels.
That seem out of place
with their tropical scenes
and primary colours.
With the smell of cotton
left in the dryer too long,
or hung all day 
in August sun.

Let winter claim the lake.
Because we know we’ll take it back;
another summer
just like last.


I wrote this in Labour Day, which I suppose is the traditional final swim of summer. I think of a ceremonial dip on the last day of summer camp, or a final plunge after closing the cottage for the season. There is this bitter-sweetness; where you feeling slightly distanced,  already nostalgic for something that hasn’t even passed. 

I began this poem with an image of mist, that morning light, and the cool water at dead calm.  But a descriptive poems that verges on cliche is hardly going to interest a reader, or be satisfying to write. So I’m glad I was able to take it in a little different direction.

It strikes me that many readers will have no idea what I’m talking about when I refer to towels dried under hot sun, or left in the dryer too long. Because with scented detergent and anti-cling dryer sheets, I don’t imagine you ever get that natural smell :  slightly burnt, but appealing in a way that makes you want to bury your nose in it.  Which is impossible to describe, and which is why I didn’t. So this should register instantly if you’ve had the experience; and I guess leave every other reader utterly puzzled. As usual, I like to include sensation in my poems, and this stanza does it nicely:  temperature/touch ...colour ...smell. 

Re-reading, it appears I went overboard with semi-colons -- once again. But it’s my favourite piece of punctuation, so usefully falling between the pause of the comma and the full stop of the period. As I’ve said before, punctuation and line breaks are like a musical score, guiding the reader through the poem’s tempo and pace.  So I pay as close attention to punctuation as to my choice of words.