I have forgotten what it is to breathe
Deeply and long,
To drown in the sharp, cold hit of an autumn morning,
And luxuriate in the slow exhaling.

I have forgotten what it is to walk
Barefooted and bare-legged in the rain,
Across a field where the soft mud envelopes my toes
And dries a smooth brown.

I have forgotten what it is to stand,
Wind-buffeted and laughing on the precipice,
Sipping celebratory wine from a flask,
And impervious to the lure of the long drop.

I have forgotten what it is to sit in the park at twilight,
Lie face-down in the snow,
Sing softly in an empty street,
Swim underwater and naked in the sea,
Turn consecutive cartwheels across a late summer meadow.
Be held so tightly I can scarcely breathe.

But forgetting, of course, is the easy part.

Copyright Vicki Watson 2013