By Mark Fiddes

Sunday night between fragments of moon 

scattered on a hot tide 

we breaststroke out to the buoy  

pillow by salt pillow  

like the sea dreamed us up  

from plastic bobbins and weed. 

Red and white freighter lights jig  

along shipping lanes and further out  

the dark rigged Leviathans  

of Liberia and Panama slumber. 

You can taste the burn from here. 

The choke and piston of it. 

The lives emptied into the swell. 

A mermen’s lot of boredom and smoke. 

Our arms clamp around the chained float. 

Even with the current behind us 

it is a fair way back and we saw jellyfish. 

Gerry says a beer would be nice 

when the airspace screams open. 

From across the Gulf 

two jets sweep low overhead 

as grey as doves. 

One beat later, the roar  

occupies everything we knew and loved 

which is sucked into a small hole. 

The surface barely stirs.  

Don’t worry, 

I reckon they must be ours, says Gerry. 

Whoever we are now. 

On the beach someone is lighting a barbie. 

They are playing Fontaines D.C. 

Race you back, I say, kicking  

the deep with the strength of a small frog.