Every line is imaginary
a jumble of bodies bobbing and shifting
there is sweat, and rhythm, and pain
one turn from the end
he is last
i wish he already knew
that finishing lines don’t really exist
that the trick is not stopping
but he is twelve years old
full of summer
and would you believe it, coming up fast
About this poem
This poem was commissioned in celebration of The Written World – our collaboration with BBC radio to broadcast a poem from every single nation competing in London 2012.
