The Death of Me
Water’s been the death of me.
The horse troth which provides a hiding space
during the Indian incursion,
but too long down, with no up,
arrows flying ...
hair floating like Ophelia
on the river.
Water’s been the death of me
like gulped like air, a walking companion
of waking dream.
Jane’s moors
and the suckling swamp
of morose memories;
a Victorian I, asleep not,
be ... on the bottom of the moor.
Water laughs its skeletal teeth seep drool
as fear abides, as I did whooshing
beneath and between, the betweens ...
with molten memories in my mind's eye
of heart pumping, scream raising, terror
and yet I know, though I live now ...
water will be the death of me.
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