The Swimmer

From the forest, towards the blue rectangle, striding, half-running, to the surround, past the wrought-iron table, candy-striped parasol, jack-knifes in with hardly ripple or sound. Arms like blades, cleaving the brightest blue, sparkling beads clung to cropped hair, the length negotiated, done in mere seconds, out the other end and standing there. Hands on lean hips, water on bronzed skin, sunlight streams down, blinding and bold, he grins a white grin, a melon-eating smile. but the blue ice chip eyes flicker hazy and cold. The eyes tell of mystery, of some temporal distortion, like chlorine blurred mirrors reflecting the past, glints of cool madness, shards of dysfunction spin a wild spin, silver dollars on glass. From the pool, across the patio, to the grass, to the field, to the hill, to the wood, and on to the next blue concrete channel, as only a time-traveller could. For an instant the smile starts to waver a tad, and the eyes, oh the eyes cloud some more, catching glimpses of crazy-paved knowing, of what awaits at his own front door. Yet the swimmer becomes the swimmer again, though the doubt sort of bothers him some, and the ghosts he ignores whisper at his bare heels of the bleak rain swept future to come.