The Risk

I haven’t taken a risk in years,

not a real one.
When I was a kid in Cornwall
there was a place called
'Puffet Moor'
where we would play around
in open mine shafts
making camps.

We would jump from
one concrete pillar
to the next
laughing,
scared but alive.
Rust snatched
corrugated iron sheets
for the roof
and a ratty flag
as proof.
It was ours.

On another moor
there was a waterlogged
shaft,
deep.
We'd take my fibre glass canoe
and just push off,
observed by the odd bemused
Cornish
sheep.

I would risk stuff every
single day.
It made me feel connected
and attractive.
Proactive I suppose,
now, with hindsight.
The danger blind sided
by hurricane youth.
Fact is
I don’t feel much
like that now.
Maybe on the odd
quick day.

There was no one there
to catch me you see.
But now there is.
That's why now
I don't take risks.
But I miss it.
I miss it like you
would not believe,
and I may yet
have a few more
heart – stoppers
up my old risky sleeve.

9th October 20123