The Water-Skier, Lemnos
At rest in motion, shod with fibreglass, He pivots on the churning chevroned skein Paid out from the speedboat's stern. The foam-flakes pass; Clutched at, the rope is ribbon first, then rein.
Sometimes he falls. And in that second's death, Knows sea all scalloped rock which, pierced, clamps tight About the body like a mineral mouth Until his life-vest bobs him back to light.
How far the shore! Its flowers of parasols And bamboo groves where fat cicadas whine; Still further off, hazed hamlets, pumice hills, Headlands for Trojan Tell or chthonic Shrine.
Yet land is what, fatigued and chilled, he sees Unspooled towards him now down the troughed track The outboard cuts, so sinks upon his skis, The voyage half jolting dream, the rope gone slack.
David Hartnett
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