Lunch on the Thames

Sump Two

Already soaked to the skin
Arrived via crawl and creep
To the dark water glooping
Where water and rock meet
On ammo box down you sit
Prepare for dive, sort out kit.

Neoprene hood on head

Weight belt made of lead
Spit in face mask; squeaky clean
Deep breath, grab rope so lean.
Wade out, cold water seeps in
Pull rope taut, ready to begin.

Submerge beneath the rock
Focus on white line
In the water green
Flakes of rock hang down
Hand over hand in green gloom

Helmet bumps on rock
Line white, slack, stop
Keep one hand on the rope
Pull taut and again
Move through the green
Tunnel, specks hanging
Like dust in warm ray
Yet this is cold
Head emerges, water drains
From helmet - top of mask
Air - Light shines on
Walls -
Bottom of mask
Still water - Pull
On rope to end of pool
Hold bolt fixed to wall.
Success is an air bell.

Martin Delemare

16^th October 2007

River Yare

Tengo

I have dived on the broken wreck of the Volnay

    Mindful of the explosive still in the shells
I have explored dark sumps under the Mendip Hills
    Holding my breath and the rope equally tight
I have eaten succulent crawfish and scallops
    Taken fresh from the Cornish sea
I have walked on crunchy Scottish sastrugi
    Feeling on top of the world
I have paddled down the rocky Ardeche
    In the midday sun and sudden thunderstorms
I have been becalmed off the Isle of Man
    Hearing coasters rumble into the night
I have ridden my motorbike with the Hastings boys
    Roaring down the Seven Mile Lane
I have searched for mushrooms out on the marsh
    Listening to pewits call overhead
I have eaten paella on the Spanish border
    And supped Rioja warm from the glass
I have jumped from the wing of a tiny plane
    And felt the lines run out of the pack
I have banged a gong on the Chinese hill
    On New Year’s Day in Suzhou
I have loved in the heat of a summer night
    And thought that she was the only one
I have drunk anis dulce in Matienzo bars
    With bottle tops embedded in mud floors
I have fought till the blood ran from my nose
    And wished I had not been so rash
I have landed big pike from the River Rother
    Careful of their long, vicious teeth
I have laughed with my family sat round the table
    Sharing the Christmas fare
I have toiled till my back ached and fingers bled
    Picking potatoes in the sun-baked field
I have caught flapping chicken in the smelly shed
    Sweating in the summer heat
I have sat in the snow with numbing brain
    On the remote Yorkshire moor
I have abseiled down shafts in Derbyshire mines
    Thankful that the rope was strong
I have climbed the cliffs of the Avon Gorge
    And dropped my heels to stop the shake
I have rejoiced at the birth of daughters three
    Listened to the owl’s hoot in the morning
I have fished for mackerel on Dungeness beach
    Watching super tankers glide up the Channel
I have eaten cherries in the Kentish Weald
    Swilling home brewed wine from bottle
I have smoked Ducados on the limestone hill
    And watched the smoke drift away on the breeze
I have kayaked in waves off Flamborough Head
    Battling clapotis and foam under the cliffs
I have lit fires on the Irish shore
    And drunk Guinness cool from the gun
I have marvelled at sparkling stal bosses
    And delicate straws in Belgium caves
I have been benighted on Heather Terrace
    Shivering in that icy Tryfan gully
I have watched barges on the River Rhine
    Carry their cargoes under Cologne’s bridges
I have eaten kebabs from the Yugoslavian spit
    Watching oxen carts work the fields
I have slept in a Swiss barn during the autumn
    Woken by cow bells tinkling in the morning
I have played chess on the boat to Crete
    Surrounded by travellers, chickens and goats
I have tasted pizza in the restaurants of Venice
    And taken the boat out to Murano and Burano
I have mourned the deaths of both family and friends
    Spoken last farewells and saddened words
I have lived as well as any king or emperor
    Who ate wild boar at the royal feast.

Martin Delemare
15^th December 2010

Fiscal Cliff

Await that dreaded hour in fear

That hour of twelve long bells
Each in your own private hells

At midnight cometh the long drop

Millions to vanish, all in a jiff
The dark hour of Fiscal Cliff

He does not stalk all alone
But struts boldly down the street
Beside that villain Pecuniary Pete

He laughs at our futile abacus

At our whimper, tear and sniff
That swarthy spiv, deadly Fiscal Cliff

Martin Delemare
2^nd January 2013