Heavy as mucus, we congregate
In a place devised for misery;
Our collective grief, an incubus, a salty, nocturnal burden,
But somewhere, within this weighty pall
Lays a dank and screaming void.
The cortege arrives, all mirrored steel and gravity
Its bulk reflecting the metallic millstone we all bear.
The slow motion, submarine approach
To a recent accident.
Doors open to the last journey through daylight, pushing through the stagnation.
Land locked in a cloying silence,
Whilst we ponder,
That out of the casement we swim,
until boxed up again,
They submerge us.
Strangled and swamped.
We watch the breakwater close over you
Decisive and heavy as the tide.
Shoals of us sit
Weeping like wounds, gouged out like limpets
In our subterranean, salty fog.
We should be
Kicking for the surface
But most of us
Like the shipwrecked crew we are.
© Holly Boyden 2011
Dedicated to Gordon Wainwright