Slow Boat to Flushing
‘You disappeared from
view.’
And – on cue –
and other assorted love
songs
‘And we were worried about
you –
but, moving on…’
Simon’s got the helm,
steady as she goes -
you could trail your hand
and stroke the mirrorlon
below,
break blue borders,
to send ripples to shore’s
far corners
imperceptible by the time
they make landfall,
and comb the grains,
but they’d be there, just
the same.
‘Those are oysters,’ he
reports,
his voice cutting through
the small talk
like a short bladed knife
-
each hiding a pearl,
cufflinks for boys,
strings for girls.
You wonder if he now
wishes
he’d stayed below to steer
from within the cabin, not
here
on the quarterdeck.
That’s me escaped up the
fo'c's'l
by the bowsprit,
but I can still hear it:
their talk a sink full of
greasy dishes.
I remember we had adjacent
offices,
I hadn’t stayed in touch –
just became too much,
like most people are,
the latest flatscreen, the
newest car:
‘And then we stayed at the
Hilton,
Lionel Richie with the
forward row
of
and that's Ben singing 'Nessun Dorma',
just over there, by the corner...
but, you know,
we were worried about
you…’
None shall sleep.
They don't know; the idea creeps
that you could dip them both in
Carrick Roads,
trail them behind the
boat
to see if its glistering wake
could soak
through; make them gleam.
But the only bubbles blown
are the ones they call
their own
and trapped within
they push outwards at
their thinning skin,
a long way from here to
home.
Simon grunts while I make
clear
there was one boat
deploying forwards,
and another abandoned
here;
tied to that pontoon,
sometimes you just get
drafted
and there’s no raft back –
Or - if there is -
it drifts and drifts,
screwing cork into itself
crewed by two by twos
dipping and pulling on
opposing oars –
flotsam lashed together
by creepers for the floor.

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