04-26-2026, 06:53 AM
I haven't posted, or indeed written anything, for a while, but this came to me unbidden today
All feedback welcome
Still not sure about the start of this but I am going to leave it for now I think
Third draft
The Med is a graveyard.
Crying underwater, salt mixes with the fresh,
diluting, polluting, dissolving with the rest.
My body drifts in the current,
weighed down by the cloth I hold,
a cloth sodden, golden, full of light.
The weeds, the sea-weeds
caress my puckered skin
and wrap me in their bladderwrack adoration,
gently flagellating, parting like a sad
magician’s curtain, to reveal a host,
a flock of ragged tourists, floating just above the
grey, grey, dance floor, toes describing
arabesques through the silt of a thousand expeditions,
clasping their dreams like children.
Sometimes, just clasping their children.
Milk eyes stare in blank accusation
of my misremembered life.
I never knew the sea, the sea
had so much hope, and misery,
buried deep down where
the salt and fresh collide.
Second draft
The Med is a graveyard.
Crying underwater, salt mixes with the fresh,
an unholy alchemy, dissolving with the rest.
My body drifts
down the river, to the sea,
weighed down by the cloth I hold,
in my hands a birthday suit,
sodden, full of light.
The weeds, the sea-weeds
caress my puckered skin
they wrap me in their bladderwrack adoration
Gently flagellating, parting like the sad
Magician’s curtains, to reveal a host,
a flock of ragged tourists, floating just above the
grey, grey dance floor, toes describing
arabesques through the silt of a thousand expeditions,
clasping their dreams like children.
Sometimes, just clasping,
their children.
Milk eyes stare in blank accusation
of my misremembered life.
I never knew the sea, the sea
had so much hope, and misery,
buried deep down where
the salt and fresh collide.
First draft
The Med is a graveyard.
Crying underwater, salt mixes with the fresh,
an unholy alchemy, dissolving with the rest.
My body drifts
weighed down by the cloth I hold,
in my hands a funeral wreath,
a birthday suit, sodden, full of light.
The weeds, the sea-weeds
caress my puckered skin
they wrap me in their bladderwrack adoration
Gently flagellating, parting like the sad
Magician’s curtains, to reveal a host,
a flock of ragged tourists, floating just above the
grey, grey dance floor, dismal toes describing
arabesques through the silt of a thousand expeditions,
clasping their dreams to their chests like children.
Sometimes, just clasping,
their children.
Milk eyes stare in blank accusation
of my misremembered life
I never knew the sea, the sea
had so much hope and misery
buried deep down where
the salt and fresh collide.
All feedback welcome
Still not sure about the start of this but I am going to leave it for now I think
Third draft
The Med is a graveyard.
Crying underwater, salt mixes with the fresh,
diluting, polluting, dissolving with the rest.
My body drifts in the current,
weighed down by the cloth I hold,
a cloth sodden, golden, full of light.
The weeds, the sea-weeds
caress my puckered skin
and wrap me in their bladderwrack adoration,
gently flagellating, parting like a sad
magician’s curtain, to reveal a host,
a flock of ragged tourists, floating just above the
grey, grey, dance floor, toes describing
arabesques through the silt of a thousand expeditions,
clasping their dreams like children.
Sometimes, just clasping their children.
Milk eyes stare in blank accusation
of my misremembered life.
I never knew the sea, the sea
had so much hope, and misery,
buried deep down where
the salt and fresh collide.
Second draft
The Med is a graveyard.
Crying underwater, salt mixes with the fresh,
an unholy alchemy, dissolving with the rest.
My body drifts
down the river, to the sea,
weighed down by the cloth I hold,
in my hands a birthday suit,
sodden, full of light.
The weeds, the sea-weeds
caress my puckered skin
they wrap me in their bladderwrack adoration
Gently flagellating, parting like the sad
Magician’s curtains, to reveal a host,
a flock of ragged tourists, floating just above the
grey, grey dance floor, toes describing
arabesques through the silt of a thousand expeditions,
clasping their dreams like children.
Sometimes, just clasping,
their children.
Milk eyes stare in blank accusation
of my misremembered life.
I never knew the sea, the sea
had so much hope, and misery,
buried deep down where
the salt and fresh collide.
First draft
The Med is a graveyard.
Crying underwater, salt mixes with the fresh,
an unholy alchemy, dissolving with the rest.
My body drifts
weighed down by the cloth I hold,
in my hands a funeral wreath,
a birthday suit, sodden, full of light.
The weeds, the sea-weeds
caress my puckered skin
they wrap me in their bladderwrack adoration
Gently flagellating, parting like the sad
Magician’s curtains, to reveal a host,
a flock of ragged tourists, floating just above the
grey, grey dance floor, dismal toes describing
arabesques through the silt of a thousand expeditions,
clasping their dreams to their chests like children.
Sometimes, just clasping,
their children.
Milk eyes stare in blank accusation
of my misremembered life
I never knew the sea, the sea
had so much hope and misery
buried deep down where
the salt and fresh collide.