Abyssal
Published on:
#posts #poetryDark of course, but dancing shades
that lap and swirl and churn and roil.
Her eyes have depths she did not realise.
No sound but the slap, clap
of the metal hull bracing, leaping.
With a chewed biro she writes messages
onto index cards, words scratched slight,
folds in half, then again, presses the crease
and ooop- drops the paper over the side,
bequeaths it to the care of the unknown
and the arms of the deep forgetting.
Most of the time, the ritual is complete.
She waits for eddies to swirl reform,
watches the outline of waves, or imagined
waves, breathes lingering deep without realising.
She hums half-remembered pop songs to herself
as wooden planks heave and slue below.
Occasionally, when the wind is wordless calm
and she is thinking about piled dishes in the sink,
there is a reply.
Next: Going Live | Previous: The First Day of Mourning