The local pool
The clonking turnstiles twist,
And we file through,
my sister, dad and me,
our rubber thongs* clapping
the grey concrete.
I smell the first hint of chlorine,
hear the shrieks of the kids
and my thongs clap
a little faster
as we dance our way
through an obstacle course
of towels and beach bags.
The water is teeming with kids
bobbing like bath toys
amongst the churning detritus
of dead grass and used band-aids.
We slip in between them,
and feel the relief
of coolness enveloping us
against the hot, hot day.
A short quarter-century later,
with kids of my own in hand,
the pool-smell brings it all back,
and the memories wash over me
in waves of chlorinated, cool nostalgia
as I clonk my way back through the turnstiles.
* For my American readers, I should clarify that 'thongs' in Australia are footwear, not underwear!
