Bungee Jump

It’s a natural thing to do — jumping

off a bridge, people often try it,

though few survive to count the cost.

On the coach from Queenstown

they reassure, give you the stats:

no customers lost, the only death

a member of staff who took

a last jump at the end of the day,

only to find half-way down the bungee

had already been untethered,

was following him down.

There is a reluctance to jump,

dive into the void, and they use

the fear of shame to spur the leap,

relying on the reaction, the embarrassment

you feel for those before you

who pull away, or get counted down

and refuse three times to jump.

Your turn and when the countdown

reaches zero, you slowly propel yourself

off the platform, diving head down.

And suddenly you are falling free,

towards the river, heart racing

and then, an almost imperceptible tug

at your ankles and you begin to slow,

the river rising to meet you

at a decelerating pace, you stretch

your arm, hand, fingers, straining

to touch the water, and then you halt,

suspended for an eternity

with it just out of reach,

the elastic band expanded,

fully extended.

The gentle tug at your ankles is now

an urgent heft, pulling you up,

upside down but becoming

gradually upright, arms spread wide

at the highest point forming a cross

in the sky and you feel the exhilaration

of heart in mouth, chest a balloon,

lighter than air. Then down

you plunge again, return upright,

each progressive bounce smaller until,

they come to an end, hanging half-way down,

upside down and they lower you

from the bridge onto a large pouf

in the centre of a boat let out

from the bank, led by the current,

and when secure draw you back to shore.

No detached retinas, but the vessels

in your eyes are red with blood

and a grin splits your face.