I swim the years
my mother ahead
not to miss any stagings marked ‘Ladies Only.’
First one has beach umbrellas
young men reclining
the way out is a maze.
Next, embowered in flowers
cherubic children await collection.
Now her stagings have sweetly sloping banks,
and a boat-man to pole.
I strike out into the cold current,
eddy past rocks, pulled down by snags.
I flounder ashore.
mirrored in still water