Dropping a line into the writhing sea
The receiver bobbing
Slowly along the musical score
Of that bright green, buccaneering dream
In which you always leave the sinking ship
Last, the iceberg a shark’s head,
Country lanes rewinding,
You gasp yourself back to life upon a pillow
As the mermaid beside you –
Half-stuffed into a bath –
Snores demurely, the hills inflating.
Her bicycle is perched at the side
Of your house, leaking
Black ironworks like accusations
Determinedly into your life.
The last thing that you expected
Was this answer. Will her father see this
As some form of kidnapping, or
As an alien abduction?
The wheelie-bin is a treasure chest
Oystering your secret life –
An escape hatch or a well, something
To throw your leavings into.
Rind. Potato peelings. Fish scales.
Rodney Cranston
Image Credit: Ele Willoughby PhD
