An Age to Drown     I'm at the age where I'm to drown in a swift sea with dark waves Sea aneamas skate the back, strange whispers of eels crowd the ear, sand is littered on the body, falling into grooves, the parsimonious dig of red crabs, roam with slight pinchers.   In the lightest day, we float on pleasure, we are the blithe dreamers, the streaming blind. Water obscures us, delights us, washes our sleep, no anger aborts our joy and we fall slowly into a cacophony of small prayers   Yet limbs float on crooked dancefloors, hair frames a thin face-love is absent, love has slipped in a copse-an arangement by a river bed. Time had slowed down and is placed in an anteroom, shades drawn and nakedness abound, absurd-skin is moist and tangled terrible to the mirror, plain to the eye.   The current holds the answers, glides as if alone, unknown-an insect's carcass floats in eddies. We breathe in circular stories, pantomine the tides, sleep as the day passes behind the moon. Wet our hands on night's safe passage, we rest as still blood.

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This work is copyrighted by Shelagh Power Chopra.