... Back on my City Of Angels tack! :)) K xx

NOT DROWNING BUT WAVING

with grateful acknowledgement to Stevie Smith


You leave your house one bright sunny morning
to cross the street for a pint of milk when, stepping
off the pavement, that motorbike rounds the corner
at 150mph, propelling your body into the air and
suddenly there’s the pigeon that always poops on
your sill, eyeballing you from his first-floor ledge,
you’re admiring Solczek’s window-box from way up
close before landing thump on the silver Mercedes
that’s stopped for a latte-to-go, thinking ouch this
hurts and sorry for all the mess before drowning in
a sea of screeching brakes and booming Niagara
of voices. And this is your first death.

The next thing you remember is the trumpet blast
of sirens, the skyward ascent of being gathered up,
stretcher-borne, hurled through a tunnel of blue light
where the on-rush of heaven is oxygen-scented
and strong hairy fingers are pulling and pinning your
bad-broken wings, pumping your chest for the beat
of a song and lifting your lids for some signs of salvation.
Then the piercing eyes of God, shining above his theatre
mask, telling you it will all be OK, squeezing your hand,
just a little prick and you’re gone, lost in a second
drowning where all at once you’re five again, taking off
armbands and swimming unaided deep into your
mother’s smile and hello of her rippling embrace…

And so it is that death has made contact and finally
you’re living, not drowning but waving.