Kingsbury Water Park

Water Park.

Lake is a writhing boil, wind-scratched agonies,
chipped and chopped, knocked, bopped,
torn up, squirming puddles of wild water,
once level, now heaped-up pleading arms.
They scud across usurped mirrors and
skiffs from Tamworth Club,
gash, slice, chisel, churn them up into rashes,
watched by stiff marshals who wield orange power and speed,
irrespective of the wind-mashed interface,
tack stitches across the cuts.
The park is transfixed by raw passion and
novice carnage, sailors without rating,
unless the number on the hull
signifies collisions – “Scallywag” has 10!
Tree lines and Kingsbury tower
saw the same commotion yesterday
witness out and back reckless behaviour, year by year,
impassive autumn, grey and brown
on the far side where herons scan boats sent forth,
to dance or dinghies recalled.

The square church owl’s derisive hoot,
silent as an average congregation,
clocks a belligerent buoy – rude red –
marking the permitted point of trainee insanity,
skips up and down, biffs the hurt surface,
does not care.

Jolly little jacks sail close to the edge of each other,
booms all but scalp the leaning, learning savages,
marshals boom and scold,
going from yawn to yawl in the time it takes for
mast and sail to yaw in a vertical arc.
Heavens rise and fall at a dizzy rate of knots.
“Get knotted!” is the answer to a “Mind out!” call.

Sharp wet simpering charades will simmer for awhile,
mirage wings disappear,
skim whispers vaporise.
The surface is at war with itself and
keels whirr, bent but unbent, determined to inflict
merry-go-round circles of
“death by a thousand cuts”.

But when the fuss is over,
battlements go skating,
smooth glass plays with oaks and willows
on flat sun plains.
A Canada goose steps out from his bay,
came from the east, to my right,
soon grew to a flotilla and
long calm wakes, peace and myrrh
as water lowers, whirls wind down,
disturbance drowns,
form quiet interface angled fringes,
dissipate lazy ripples to sooth, silence the beast,
happy scissors of light,
diamond darts and
while the RYA Training Centre lunches,
tranquillity touches down,
anxiety subsides, inflammation sighs,
clouds stay where they are,
unfazed by a few foghorns
from an expert flock.
.

wit

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