A poem by SAM HUDDLESTONE
you said “jump” in your mind
like a lead laden leaf, you fall;
skydiving initially, you risk drowning thereafter.
you pollute it when you
break its surface, holding
breath and closing eyes,
caught by a fraction of the
volume. a squint of high
stakes but still the sun floods,
floods all but you and the area directly
once adjusted you look to see
your feet dangle and dance
down in the blue. straddling oblivion;
treading water in a sideways
figure of eight.
who knows how many of
your bodies make up the depth.
you see it so it exists but it is nothing.
what does that make you then? lost in
mirrors and photographs.
you set your sights to a time signature
and can shoot if it gets too much.
your arms are spread,
you start counting down
– funny how a clock has
neither a start or finish, it just stops –
from ten. weightless, bobbing,
suspended above an abyss
(you lean and take a look)
your abyss, if you’ll have it.
Featured image courtesy of Sam Huddlestone