THE QUARRY

THE QUARRY

The quarry was a spring fed limestone pit of
deep water in a dark crater, but in this story
the quarry was also me.

Robert was a bit too young and at the time classified an intermediate beginner
not sufficiently advanced for a long swim in very deep water.

My intrepid second brother, Greg, breast stroked all the way,
each stroke dipping his head completely under, worrying our mom
he might vanish for good, he took a whole lot more time than I did or dared.
I chose to sidestroke which got the ordeal over faster
and kept my eyes skyward instead of looking down into those spooky depths.

The prospect of crossing Beaver Dam quarry
sunk me into horrid dreams all that previous night.
I was ten and actually proud that I could swim,
I just wished we could've done that qualifying lap
in a pool with a clean, smooth, visible and touchable bottom.

But the quarry laid as deep and dark as a macabre morgue
strangled in and under the clutches of witch finger trees
on top of limestone cliffs gouged and scraped ragged
by long dead Irish quarrymen.

The final test to earn my badge and ribbon
required that I swim the breadth of Beaver Dam.
A barrel lung man claimed he had free dived to the bottom
discovering a steam shovel and what might have been a truck.

His revelations inflamed my apprehensions
over what else might lurk in those depths,
tortured visions of hideous monsters
dwelling in caves of slime. Who would rescue me
out there in the middle from the sun dappled
reflections rising off the yellow green shelves of shale?

My tightly wound phobia like an anchor
kept dragging me and my innocence down,
exposing my raw and unfounded fears
as I frantically kicked and stroked,
the bubbles brushing and tasting me
like a horde of piranhas picking bare my feverish mind
entombed in a cold pocket of ghostly murky water
motivating me to gather enough will and strength
to reach the steep rise of the weed and rock shore.

Wrapped in a towel, dripping wet,
and shivering on the dry land
I realized that somewhere during that crossing
the adolescent might have beens
of things that never were
had given up, slipped off,
and in the silence forever drowned.

by L DOUGLAS ST OURS
April 2010