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.