My son, in color, swims prodigiously
leaps from pool feet first to diving board;
Skis, seconds later, backwards up the hill,
pulled by his flying scarf.
                           Another reel,
And I am child again. There's Dad
in bathing suit, straw hat, and pipe,
leading our horse toward the lake.
She pulls her head back, stretches her neck,
sets her hoofs apart on the sand. I forgot
how tall she was, but I remember
how my father walked, bow-legged, sturdy
on his feet, his elbows bent a little,
as though they too were bowed.
He grins at the camera, waves his pipe,
then takes the horse's bit to lead her,
knee deep, into water.
                           Our place
was sold. The horse died long before.
Never again in jest or pride will my father
walk before a camera.
                           Moving shadows
on a screen hold me here, resistant as the horse,
and take me by the bit- my mouth is soft-
and stretch my neck, and pull me deep
into the dark lake of memory.