The bang of the back door
sent a stammering sound wave crashing in the silence
of this house beside the sea and I thought,
they're home
early
today
my daughter's fisher
man built like a
rock
and his burly brother
Then I slipped back
under the swirling convulsive currents
of the sickness, thick and hot, like curried red lentil soup,
boiling, bubbling, airless,
slipping, boiling, breathless,
until his hand
rough and gentle like a craftsman,
reached through the door of death
and pulled me into life
up
and on my feet
I looked into his eyes and asked
if
he was hungry
no sooner had they eaten
the fishermen and friend
when the crowds came banging on the door
catching my surprise with a look as if he'd already gone,
far from here,
Simon smiled,
have you not heard? have you not known?