Francine Rochford: ‘Parkour’

Parkour

The third willow was mine.
In it I could reach the highest branches and perch, foot firm in a fork or occluded knot—
Hippocrates’ willow bark (good for fever and inflammation, they say)
rough on the skin of my arm and my cheek.

I would be the one to climb the corrugated iron of the sloping roof
when a gutter needed cleaning or the chimney unblocked
or just when I wanted to be away—to look over the world, and not be among it.

The nearly-empty field bin, flexing slightly as I climbed its unguarded ladder, was more of a challenge;
The day around me warped and shimmered with heat in that season
And the paddocks below, half-stripped lines of straw and seed,
pushed sun back into my eyes so that they filled with tears and sweat;
And the bin beneath, grain draining, deceptively surface-calm
held heat just to torment, mixing it with grain dust—an abrasive soup for the lungs.
Still, my legs and arms and head were firm, and cast easily over the iron rim.

I can’t tell when I changed—
When vertigo overtook the nonchalant control of my body,
and my arms became untrustworthy.
Now I have in memory only the nights when I flew over rooftops, avoiding notice;
Lowering myself over voids,
Climbing vertical walls,
Walking freely over parapets;
Casting myself into the free air, body answering equally sure and error-free—

In memory or in dream.

For sometimes my dreams are pleasant: I am wind-hovering,
Carried over seven-leagues in a step, lowering and pushing off a cushion of air—
Suspended light over paddocks, not trudging, heavy-footed, slow and powerless
over the weary earth.

Francine Rochford