Arlington Reservoir vibrated,
that low bowl of gust-cut waves,
the quantity now the difference
to my previous walk here,
that and my end-of-day inability
to route march any more:
as a kid, returning from school
they called me ‘Bell-fast’.
A stared sparrowhawk, high,
worked miracles to remain in place:
I am the opposite of that bird,
landlocked, working to move.
The gravel scuffs, my soles wear,
it hurts, even in these boots,
and because I have sent myself
back before the rest, I must
sit at the car park and wait.
My youngest is the first to return,
and to hide my accelerated pain
I ask to be taught to skateboard,
and as I stand, held by him, unsure,
the wind drops, and I balance
as on a small boat, not quite Galilee,
but hoping he still believes in me.