Letting Go

Although I wobbled when Dad’s steady hand
released the saddle’s back, I freewheeled
on downhill into the rush of flying’s thrill.
And teaching me to swim, he held me
by the puppet-strings formed by my costume’s
criss-cross straps; and though I felt him leaving go
I kicked away, trusting my body and the water’s lift.

But now that it’s my turn, my grip is glued,
stiff fingers must be prised back one by one.
I failed to learn the trick of letting go
of stale regrets, false pride, maternal frets,
my looks, ambitions, or my dearest dead.
I’m tethered fast, a sand-bagged air balloon.
Oh, teach me to rise weightless in the blue!

Maggie Butt

If you have any comments on this poem,  Maggie Butt would be pleased to hear from you.