He entered the water like an ancient walrus
and struggled down the ladder at the shallow end
to join me in the slow lane,
wobbling and panting in his fat old age.
Seeing the pot belly and hearing him wheeze
I believed this at last was my time to shine,
and knew as he fell into his feeble breast stroke
I would no longer be the swimming pool joke.
Joyful, I sped after the wrinkled shoulder blades
lunging and splashing past his weak wallowing
and then swirled ahead, swivelling onto my back,
frolicking carelessly like some aquatic acrobat.
Thus, chortling dolphin to his manatee bulk,
I witnessed with a trickle of dread doubt
how he surfaced like a wounded hulk,
and suddenly broke into a slow, methodical, crawl.
Only then did I see my deluded mistake
as, arms crashing tirelessly through the water
like steamboat paddles, first he surged level,
then left me to splutter in his wake.
Peter Keeble
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