Roads to Joy

So when you wipe out on water skis
gliding across a placid lake in north Ontario —
well.  You let go of the rope. First.
But not before half the lake’s been forced
down your throat and you gasp up into air
and you’re bobbing alone in the middle
while the boat circles back and you wave
coz you’re okay and you struggle to squeeze
your feet back in the awkward slots
and you’re spluttering and spitting,
and you know what?
That taste is the taste of summer.

Fast forward fifty, sixty years and you’re on Ken Water
showing off in the kayak you claimed from a Facebook ad
and your turn against the soft current
is too sharp
and whoops!  You’re over and upside down
and you know what?
It doesn’t matter a jot if you can get out
coz the taste of the water takes you back
and you’re a kid again —
but you do emerge, gasping and spluttering.

And coz you’re reminiscing now,
you capture both tastes in your mind
and you write them down —
and you know what?
You realise that the taste of summer
is something you could never, 
ever, have forgot.