THE DIVER, A Poem
he posed rigidly, arms extended,
a private crucifix at the top
of the cliff
a lifetime below, the beckoning waves
pulsed into the echoing rocks--
rhythmic crash and foam and swirling bitter salt
ascending to the motionless cross far
above.
the wind ceaseless, buffeting,
drying and cracking his lips,
rocking his quivering body
forcing him
to grip the jagged rocks
claw-like, toes trickling blood
how many times
had he climbed to the brink of this cliff?
how many times
had he climbed down from the brink,
averting the calm burning eyes?
the old man who always knew
when he would be on the cliff,
who was always there
with him
a long journey from the other side
for such an old man
perhaps, perhaps today--
he heard the voice--
he would finally
enter gravity to triumph
over falling--perhaps today
he would swoop
plunge
eagle and dove
and fall ascending to
the shifting magic of the waves--
perhaps today.
© clark cook