THE LESSON

THE LESSON  - a poem written for me by Alan White, love it Alan, privaliaged to have you write it for me, you are a star!

THE LESSON

 When I first encountered that Pauline Squire
 She ticked all the boxes that said “live wire”’
 She ranged around lakes and tarns and seas.
 They were as nothing. She crossed them with ease.
 And she has helped many hundreds to swim,
 Young and old, fast and slow, whatever their whim.
 If she were a show off, she could justly claim
 However hopeless you are, you’ll learn just the same.
 Bring your granny, and spouse, and let your kiddy come.
 She can even improve the stroke of Ann Widdicombe.
 The first time I went was for me a mistake:
 A social swim in Ellerton lake.
 When first I got in, it was beyond cold.
 I dithered and shivered and felt very old.
 Amid all the jokes and cries of merriment,
 Trapped in a cryogenic experiment.
 It all turned out to be quite insane,
 When they all shot off like rats down a drain.
 There are sinister things in the waters of Ellerton.
 There are even some rumours about a dead skeleton.
 I socialised with the first marker buoy
 With feelings somewhat the converse of joy.
 So  I spent nearly all the swim out of range
 But things improved at the cake exchange.
 After an interval I returned
 To take up the offer of help I had earned.
 At the beginning of this I must emphasise:
 Her slight figure belies a formidable size.
 Her spirit, that is: she eats iron bars,
 Rusty nails, iron filings, and even old cars.
 You’d never think, as she stands on the jetty,
 She sustains herself on barbed wire spaghetti.
 She takes icy baths and wears chain mail.
 She likes nothing better than snow, gales and hail.
 But as a pupil you’ll come to no harm
 Because her demeanour is gentle and calm.
 What can you do? I struck out with a will.
 You look like a buffalo swimming uphill.
 Don’t bash at the water, make yourself slide
 Through the water, perpetual glide.
 Make love to the water, make it your friend.
 When you do this you’ll swim without end.
 Observe the fish and do what they do
 And then it will start to happen for you.
 Rubbish, I said, I can’t be a roach.
 My movements are ugly and grisly and gauche.
 I might be pike. At least I can lurk.
 Being a fish is not my kind of work.
 And then it began, I was long, sleek and sharp,
 Astonished to find I’d turned into a carp.
 I saw that my coach had become a carp too.
 I felt there was something we both had to do.
 The feeling came on as I brushed by the weed
 And saw to my horror, I’d scattered my seed.
 This wasn’t the worst of my terrible plight.
 I couldn’t lay hold of her, try as I might.
 She wriggled enticingly, danced out and in,
 I couldn’t get within range of her fin.
 Then I struggled and flapped and tried to get clear.
 Are you sure you’re feeling all right, my dear?
 Came that calm, gentle voice. The nightmare was done.
 I lay on the bank and blinked in the sun.
 So I still find I swim like a fish in a net.
 But will I go back again? Oh, yes. You bet.