It feels very lonely, up here against the clouds
and girders of the glass roof. The pool so far away,
framed in flower of a thousand upturned faces.
Walk to the brink, turn, and carefully
(firm toes gripping this last hold on life)
hang heels in space. Face a blank wall.
Raise arms slowly, sideways, shoulder-high,
silent passion,dream-deep concentration
foretelling every second of the coming flight.
Then with a sudden upward beat of palms,
of arms like wings, gathering more than thought
launch backwards into take-off, into one ball
roll for a quadruple reverse somersault
that at the last split-second flicks
open like a switchblade-
feet pointed as in prayer, neatly folded hands
stab the heavens like a dagger, plunge
deep into the pool's azure flesh - without a splash.
by James Kirkup
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