…this does not matter,
nothing here matters,
just the slow drowning,
lack of oxygen,
lungs maintaining the silence,
feet pushing through
the barrier of sound.
Bubbles and bubbles,
and bubbles,
rising to surface stratosphere,
to nest like birds,
drifting on still waters,
until sudden implosion,
kick of spray.

But down below,
absence of sounds,
absence of anyone else,
all is still, so still,
just heart, pumping
away inside naked chest,
eyes chlorine blind,
noting blur of movement,
blue of surroundings,
too blind to roam,
steady sting of water,
arms like fists,
propelling onwards,
to indefinite infinity,
to sudden brick wall,
or nothing at all.
To death by drowning,
to calm ocean grave,
to warmer waters,
or colder climates,
to years stretched,
in the vacuum,
to hibernation under currents,
to a damp front porch,
to air pebbles,
to slow choking,
to it all washing away,
to safety, somewhere,
in the depths.

Down here, are we not safe?
The sun stretches
but can only skim the surface;
the seagulls dive,
but do not dare dive
as deep as we dive.
Temporal waters,
make us all clean,
let me meditate here,
breathe in oxygen lies,
cleansed down below.
Cocoon me beneath,
and hold me like an oyster,
I shall pay you back,
with words for the wonder,
the wild lack of anything,
it all evaporated,
like drops of dew on warm skin.

Chichester, March 2017


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