there are ghosts
in the safety glass,
obese & smile-less,
& vaguely familiar;
trapped like fossils
in cages of nostalgia.
choking on nuggets
of lethargic vowels,
a brood of pale biddies
moan about weather,
a toddler is hamstrung
by the weight of a nappy;
& somewhere between
them, an irreparable union.
christmas island, december 2010
heavy now as ballast lead, a weightless
baby drifts from vision. wide-eyed but
lifeless, melting in the twilight of expanding
depth. she waves in the drag of undertow &
saturated lungs. each gilded globe of fleeing
breath seeks refuge in the cusp of sky & sea.
each fragile bauble of misplaced hope exploded
in the tensions of a rolling swell. & heavy now
as ballast lead, their empty hearts grow cold
& dead. all dreams defunct in waking terror.
they melt into expanding depth. their muted
eyes accuse, though lacking any focus; they fix
like cadavers on points of consensus, their pupils
pulled like moths towards the light upon the hill.
Paul Summers © 2012