Both Waving and Drowning

(from Sylvia Plath Hughes)

Public Domain

An error made that this the norm,

joint bare-foot wading, final lap,

though waves suggest uneasy crest,

that final rest not as expect,

as storms, say, mark our closing days,

weigh heavily as drag retreats.

What may turnup, concluding leg,

and leave us stranded, sands of time,

when bucket list lost in the mist -

e’en memories are cut adrift.

No wonder angle from behind,

as partners passing where once surfed?

For many, most, this day retreats.

So walking past the setting light -

these shadows fall behind their lead;

but what lies there where now they tread -

coloured reflections on their past,

a watercolour of their moves.

A tidal wave, demented souls,

cognition gone of relatives;

though music of a childhood, note,

breaks the sound barrier imposed;

those songs of Sunday School once sung,

or rhymes of nursery rehearsed.

Her bag. coat style, his glance suggest

to me that she out of her depth;

except she paces nearer froth,

exposure one might not expect.

I learnt as boy, my father taught

that man should walk kerbside on street.

For those whose closest left the fray,

whose days have parted from the way,

or those whose crumbling frame precedes

shared journeys in the latter phase;

as prime and tide too soon recede

those privileged to last stands clear.