That washed-up image of a girl I see,
I knew her once, or was it she knew me?
She touches her cheek as I touch mine,
mouths the words I speak; takes a while
to recognise now gazing back through unmoving eyes
proving my mind’s winding away as lathered foam
in deluged pools whorls ocean’s jetsam
in diminishing spools.
A young girl asks my name,
I tell her it’s the same it’s always been,
and who is she, she asks, and what’s the date;
I throw the questions back like runty fish -
I know a trick or two, I know the ropes,
I could end up by drowning here
sucked under with her questions;
my ebb moon-pulled between the high-tides of my mind,
a boat at anchor
slowly keeled on the lengthening shore.