A Drowning at Low Tide

 

She hit back,

Not a hard person to please

A flick of a nipple, a line from a poet

But today, deep rumbles from a mute listening to the sounds of a party, the kind a child might fall asleep to.

Maybe she was hard to please, because try as she might those people just bored her

Enough to take her fourth depression bath of the day - enough to read a book, and miss her love who for some reason seems unknown to her at times.

Times when Morse code and flares rise up on ribbons to cross the sky and declare a drowning. A drowning at low tide, far away from the shore, her clogs stuck in a drunk mans walk, stagger, swim, choke.  A drowning.

Pre-Raphaelite girl who should have swam in a river where the  warmth of the sounds and the reeds would have been her blankets. Not out by the desolate winter beach with an empty pier to look on as yet another unmoved stony audience declined standing ovation. Seaweed washed up with the smell of dead seals,

unruly skies opened up and

clean a silent drowning at low tide