Lost at Sea

Dark water, air polished,
gently slapping the hull as
I watch the surface,
the weight of atmosphere pressing the swell
below my paddle.
I think how I will have to be so careful
when my brush touches the canvas,
each mark must seem random
when it isn’t.

Instead of painting, I am trying to fish,
when my lure catches, pulls me starboard,
unyielding, the line thrumming,
blade-sharp against skin.
Immediately the stand snaps.
I grip the rod, hold on for so long
as it bends until it’s tip
ducks below the surface,
my arms pulled inexorably down
into the water’s breath.
I have to cut it free.

The line is gone as if it never was.
Serene swaying, hushed lapping, a gull’s scream,
dogs barking on the beach
as I paddle in.
Unsteadily I stand in the surf,
pull the boat up the sand.

This is the day you leave us all.
The news comes in an email and
I watch the North Sea from the window.
She says it is unexpected,
you thought you had more time.
There is never time.

I wrap the kayak in its tarpaulin and
climb the stairs to sit and sketch that horizon,
the lowering clouds, pewter greys, Prussian blues
I fade them to Titanium white, pure, no touch of Paynes.
Cerulean is the blue I will use for the sky,
but it’s not the colour of heaven.