Dreaming In Kelpfields

To know this is not dreaming a swimmer
Must feel a pain of coldness, reminding
Of the heart’s warmth wrapped in waggling mutton,
In flying down the green slide to the kelp,
Forgetful of landlubbers grinding frowns
Between visits to favourite tables,
His last heartfelt uplook: silver blanket
Where gulls look in the mirror and see what?
Not themselves, not the daydreamer well sunk
Without a fishtail to boil the water
As the long hair strokes a nude hugging dark.
Descent done, no risen thought of return.
Black sand, dead shells, painless, unknown.
Cold sleep, passed among weeds, he dreams alone.
copyright © Steve Walker all rights reserved

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