by Pat Boran

Because his life depended on it,
because there was no other path,
because night was coming on
and the hounds were closing fast

he took to the river; up to his chest
in the freezing water he waded out,
fighting to keep upright but then
suddenly swept right off his feet;

so that the thing he’d feared the most
like most of the things we draw back from
losing our footing, being carried off
became the thing his life depended on.