the Dart,
twenty years downstream
from family days.
Deep enough for two boys to
dive into, oblivious of
undercurrent,
safe beneath the silt.
Mum and Dad,
on that rug, lying
amongst the cross patterns of it's bind.
Duties done,
father disappears
behind sunday supplements,
or boards a reed boat -
escapes the surface eddies
on a separate tributary to the sea.
Avoiding herself,
mother sorts the cellophaned food,
dividing sealed portions;
hiding shadows from the sun.
'You can leave now,' she says,
'I understand. It's okay.'
The movement stagnates
in these pools.
But, if you like, stay.
Join me here, waiting;
as water flows around the residue,
the remains, washed up by the swell,
the wake of suicide.
It never stops, as you know,
and soon enough, soon enough,
we'll be carried off like her dust:
brown, muted, waterlogged,
until all that's left is the tide,
the ambivalent flow of the Dart.