Self-portrait as a drop of water

To be the drop that ricochets
from a snag of rock, pits its kick

and spit, its one-time trick, against
that instinct of all things to fall.

Below, the rest of my body
swarms and clatters down the hillside

leaves me naked and glistening,
a muscle slicked with oil – intact.

Cold beats from me, equalises
in the warmth of gorse and heather.

I speak for the sun in its tongue
of colours, see all that holds –

valley, horizon, the sky – curved
in perfect thumbnail on my lens.

Spray drifts up like dry ice – before
freefall, the stream’s imperative.