Swimming In The Sea With My Father 

legs floating, brush of seaweed 
bulging water moves us 
up and down 
the shore seems very far away 

the bright orange of my dad’s neoprene cap 
is a moving buoy, marking our course 
my left shoulder flawed like his 
my left shoulder in step with his 

both of us lolloping through waves 
as we charge across the bay 
ignoring the flags, the lifeguards, the paddleboards
the people, like tiny dots on the shore 

my legs drag behind my strong swimming body
obediently, like reluctant children on an outing 
to look around a church or a museum 
some historic building benignly designed to improve them 

until my feet dragging behind 
become participant 
in this way of moving 
through the world 

and one day for the first time, I seek out a small church
to visit, purely for my own pleasure 
and I am made better by the scribbled prayers 
the treasures found and cherished on a stained glass windowsill 

as I am made better by the boats 
bobbing out the corner of my eye 
my father’s orange head, tired now 
receding towards the shore 

just steadying his feet on the sand 
now squinting back out to sea 
to watch me 

as I keep swimming

Harriet Sandilands is a writer living in Montserrat, Spain. She recently published her first book “Pepita” and has been featured at The Poet’s Corner, Litro and Kitchen Table Quarterly. She loves dogs, soup and swimming outdoors.