Tuesday, 9 August 2011

Of Virginia Woolf

You filled your pockets with stones,
a seed-sower sowing nothing,
nothing to cast away.

It must have been cold as you went down.
The bite of March water
must have brought blood
rushing in panic to your skin.
A gasp, perhaps,
as your chest submerged.
(Were you beyond gasping?
Were you so far behind the veil?)

And then the silence.
The hiss of water against the ears,
the stirred up mud against your startled eyes.
The water cold in your palms
and cold in your unravelling hair
and cold through your clothes
to your naked skin. And
the weight inside would hold you,
stronger than stones.

You stood, perhaps, for a time,
a naiad in the depths,
hair taken with the flow
until you sank full-faced and weary
into the soft silt bed.

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