Poem 7

From when I worked as a postal sorter and someone on the floor didn’t return from a diving trip over the weekend …

… I get a strong visual impression from this of bleak early morning half-light, ranks of grey waves …

Monday Morning

The sea is holding him down
one foot on his back it sneers at his friends
waiting on the wave line

come in
we can only wait one more tide
we've got to get back
and you know that you slack bastard

the sky is full of bruises
their faces are like bruises there on the sand
his face is spreading
and laughing
goggling at all the shellfish
all the good places

let it pull you in
this sixth tide scrabbling up the beach inches
under its fingernails
board each grey grainy wave like a bus
like a horse
like a rope

the diving is over
it's Monday morning 7 o'clock
they're all starting work
at the Post Office