Boy
A drowned boy drifts
into my living room.
He’s here now by the fire.
I roll him onto his side,
recovery position,
turn the heat up,
try to warm him.
At night, he opens
the door on the sea,
darkness floods in,
down the chimney,
through open windows.
It follows me
upstairs, laps
at my ankles, rises.
The boy stands
by the side of my bed,
dead eyes
watching for nightfall,
waiting for the raft
of the moon
to coast over black water.
He waits to catch
the tail-end of a wave,
the boat of a dream
that will carry us both
into another world,
into warm arms,
family,
wings and flight.
Before I turn out the light,
he smiles,
hugs me goodbye.
The last thing I hear
is a foghorn drowning-out
voices as they ring
in the distance.
I toss names
into the mist like coins,
wait for a return,
some note of change,
a measure of depth.
Nothing comes back.
In the morning,
footprints appear again
in the hallway:
little islands
of cold, hard light.
Reblogged this on reubenwoolley.
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Thanks Reuben!
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Thanks for linking!
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Have reblogged Joanne’s poignant poem.
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Thanks Talia!
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The humanity in this poem is heartbreaking.
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Reblogged this on smithsurf and commented:
Poem number 37: the Writers for Calais Refugees blog.
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Powerful image of the dead boy coming into your home
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