I reach out for driftwood

splintered and damp but at least buoyant

a life preserver

in place of the straight

talking jacket,

splintered, fractured driftwood

as torn as me, as breakable

in this tempest sea,

I’m breaking apart as the water pulls me under

and I can feel the suffocating nausea rise

as the sea lurches, tossing

me hope,

breaking my spirit in a matter of waves,

the waves that wash down my throat,

that I spit out bone by bone,

that I cannot, like an old ancient King,

find a way to stem the tide…

 

I reach out for driftwood

 

I thrash in the water, the upturned sea,

the dynamic ocean

and I become still,

my head full of water,

my head accepting fate

even if my body lies and struggles on

as I feel the crest of the wave

smash into me like a bullet

fired in an illegal war

on some ancient battleground

and I taste the foam, soft

sweet release of foam and furious

salted spume, close my eyes

and my ears to the sound

of the helicopter and its dazzling

bright light as they attempt to lift me skywards…

 

I look for the driftwood,

breakable, damaged, splintered,

rotting

and I cling to it

till the helicopter knows

there is no point

in continuing the search.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016