Rolling Logs

You are on the other side of the log filled river,
slowed here to a log filled lake; too wide to hear entreaties
I want you but we have no bridge and if we had,
you would be gone by the time I found it.
We must not take our eyes off each other.
Must keep our eyes on the prey.
But which of us is prey?
Or at least not just.

A log filled river centre is no place to flourish,
and halfway is not an option.
I will cross over and bring you back.

Think of them as floating stepping stones I mime,
We will be weightless, agile, feather touching for balance only,
our weight elsewhere before it’s noticed.

I learn to keep away from log ends,
that middles are best, and
to spread my feet over the core,
everything to prevent rolling,
I go with the bounce,
Learn to sky hook with confidence over a risked lower quarter,
But follow with a safer middle-ish, then a near miss when my foot foolishly briefly straddled two,
but I compensate like a ballet dancer when his partner hesitates and the next beauty manages me perfectly.

Was I concentrating too much, looking down too well, not enough time focused on you?
Or was it my noisy breathing that scared you away,
the intensity of my story that made you lose interest?
Or could you already see that walking on logs was too hard too dangerous for the limited reward that was on offer?