Peaks to Portland, Revised Version

 Peaks To Portland, Revised Version

There she stands in her pink Speedo and white swim cap,

looking skyward, hands raised, fingers splayed.

The swimmers who lined up ashore that morning awaited

the starting gun, but what they heard first was thunder,

a loud clap of it, and then an almost simultaneous report

from the gun.  Holy Moly! Nothing for it but to dive in!

She did. That’s what Marilyn, her mother, told me,

as she unpinned the pastel I wanted from the clothesline

she had improvised to display her work.

I bought several pastels from Marilyn that day,

and I remember the pleasure of carrying them home.

The bay to my left was calm as I walked, but I imagined

her daughter's cold swim to Portland in pink Speedo  through three miles of chop. 

How brave the daughter, how proud the mother! 

I still like recalling that day, the clothesline full of work 

Marilyn had on offer, swinging in the breeze from the bay.

Marilyn gone now, alas.   Ars longa, vita, brevis.

                                                                                —Sef, 3/23/2025 -Revised