I am middle-aged, and pushing off into the water

which is sudden translucent vertigo beneath me. 

Two metres to the river bank – no oceans crossed – 

and there is as much sky down 

                       as there is up, more  – 

more world beneath me than above, where 

clouds 

skim like water boatmen 

on the surface tension of the sun. 

I’ve resigned my job, unstitched my role 

(faithless Penelope, abandoning duty)

in this closely-woven world

    – for what? 

To balance halfway between air

and falling, foot muscles cramping as they clutch

at the well-scrubbed surface 

    of a paddleboard. 

  Beneath, long threads

of water-weeds shuttle and weave themselves.

My boat sets out to worlds where I will walk one-eyed, 

trespass on nymphs’ territory, block my ears 

from music, where I will shout 

‘my name is Nobody’ 

      and hear no echo back.

And I fear falling and holding only water 

river water,

which holds so much light.  

Since when did I fear falling upwards                             

and grasping the threads of the sun?