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The Art of Swimming
Swimming:
An art.
Every muscle working together perfectly.
The timing is precise.
You anxiously wait on the starting block,
Every muscle tensed,
Blocking out all other sound and movement
Except for that one bang
That will release you from your prison.
The gun goes off
And you have a split second to react.
Too late,
Too bad.
Too early
And the race is already over for you.
You’re in the water.
Breathe,
Stroke, stroke.
Breathe,
Stroke, stroke.
Your lungs are burning
And your muscles are on fire.
The final lap.
You give it everything you have.
You fly through the water, barely breathing;
Your arms and legs moving out of control,
Yet perfectly timed.
You stretch towards the wall and surface.
Weak and gasping for breath
You pull your body out of the water
And wait for your next race
To start the art of swimming
Over again.
There IS an art to it. My son
There IS an art to it. My son is an avid swimmer and I used to love watching him at practices.
...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."
"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "