Poems by John Pilkey

The Pool

Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema. Expectations (1885)                               I have forsaken all but remember a pool,                               ornamented with marble, under yellow lights,                               round, swimming engagement pool,                               kept under diamond lights for those who waited.                               Someone waited,                               someone else waited, I also waited,                               watching for the shadow of a sacred swan,                               the shadow of rescue.                               The sound of round feet was nought                               against velvet marble,                               against sleeping grass and indoor carpet,                               harmless, dampened, heel-circled                               on a simmering evening.                               But still the yellow lights                               and still the face of the round                               pool stirring and glistening                               and waiting while I waited.                               Someone waited, I also waited,                               someone else waited as I waited.                               Then water was in the sole                               of the one who waited.                               Glass upon glass; marble upon marble.                               The round pool was in the eye                               and was the eye of us whose heel was glass and water.                               The aqueous humor of watching                               became the water of walking;                               and feet of those who watched                               became wings of the sacred swan.                               Elsa and I were the same.                               Our feet were the same,                               our wings were the same,                               and our eyes were the same                               as the pool under the yellow lights,                               which were the yellow eyes of the sacred swan.                               Our hair was in the pool                               and was the memory of the pool                               and was the stirring and glistening of the pool.                               Having forsaken all, we were the pool,                               walking upright through the shafts of the diamond lights. John Davis Pilkey