Imagine

I feel a touch of Grandpa’s ice-grey hand
as he heaves the words:

I can see them
their outstretched arms a bridge of gold.

His gasping mouth ellipses in rapture
then his torso bolts erect.

He gazes an all consuming kindness
as we watch him leave his eyes.

He had been a sailor on a warship
was seventeen

when seven of his mates had fallen in
to the sea’s exploding black gullet.

Their arms raised pleading
distraught heads bobbing

called him:
Bert, Bert.

and water slopped savage
into the silk

hollows of their lungs leaving him
with a bandoleer of guilt.

His fellow feeling still so strong
had taken on a sweet song.

Desire held out the other end of the stick,
rattled something more permanent

than what that monster
could devour.

We join hands above him
and pray that the waves are singing.