Plym above the Weir

Mid October, river level 0.7 and rising, 14°c, 400m


I was told not to swim above a weir,
too fast flowing, apparently you'd roll beneath, hit again,  
again and again by the weight of water.
 
The burn is back,  
churns my nerve
pushed against the pace of a fast flowing weir.  
We enter above  
scramble  
barefoot over upturned slate and rubble,  
fumble  
for a little courage, splash  
neck, forearms, breast  
and sink,
slow,
into cold.
I let it settle  
around the extremities as if nettle stings  
easing. We 'stroke  
against flow, blowing puffs of air  
creating misted echoes, force forth,  
take to front crawl, heads up,  
always heads up. A dipper flits  
from a stranded, long fallen tree,  
another,  
another.  
 
The sky darkens,  
dusk creeps in,  
my headtorch is in my rucksack further  
along the weir line.  
A gunshot is fired close-by, frightens a pack of unusual ducks who flap above us in procession,
they're right to be fearing, another is heard in the thick of trees.  
A fretful Italian emerges, fleeing along the bankside path.  
He seems in state of emergency,  
says how awful it is, how the shooters mocked him, should he call the police.  
I think of the flock,  
their urgency for life, imagine humans flocking  
against humans, lips curl upon a Wednesday's smile. I file it away  
in the back of my mind,  
think of how it's bruising my mood.  
We sail back on the speeding current, stab feet into the bed of the river  
on the edge of this powerful weir, stand against force, in the funnel of flow.
I submerge and begin  
fighting again,  
and again,  
and again until bats sail  
overhead, until owls  
hoot in chorus, until  
clothed and giddy, we run  
by darkness  
home.