We took our ease that day
so hot on Ballygawley
Road that tottie stones
plumped, stuck to our soles.

                A half mile dirt
               track to Eskra Lough's
               dark basin. We sat
               on an uncultivated hill

near tufted, yellowing grass,
whins, wind-tousled
broom’s hair. Mother
and father lit cigarettes

               wafted smoke at nipping
               midges, itching our white
               skins. We spread towels
               skimpy as handkerchiefs

looked down at the cut
of a pair stripped off
to trunks, bikini, brown
as berries, swaggering about

               showing off their tan
               from somewhere foreign
               from somewhere beyond
               wrapped drumlin, wet Sperrins.

I tip-toed as if the ground
would scorch my feet
weaved around thistles
like markers for a slalom

               down to Eskra's sour,
               sullen lip. She lay
               like a dormant animal
               presenting a smooth skin

unruffled dark fur.
But my uncle who could
swim her mile stretch
would tell how she shelved

               away, quickened her depths
               threw down shafts to an abyss,
               clamped the unwary. For he
               on that hot afternoon tried to

prepare me for my journey:
his cupped hands beneath
my back and legs. Relax.
I stiffened, resisted

               spluttered air and water
               from the mouth's blow-hole,
               inhaled slime stagnancy
               breaking away from constricting rushes.