Alison Lock


Swimming backstroke,
moving through a-rhythmic
laps of kindless waters. A bather,
who on picnic days would wade
in mountain streams, flick
water at her sisters, giggling,
‘Come on in’, you’d shout, waving,
but your arms are useless
now––wrapped around your baby, aching,
keeping her mouth and yours,
above the surface, straining,
to soothe her cries, and if you could,
you’d hum a lullaby.

Hush, little one, we’re on our way,
to a land of promises, far away.

Birds gyrate as they migrate
south as you pull north, you gasp
for air, you taste the salt
of sea as strong as blood.


One comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s