no news from the sea bed

after visiting a ward where people were held who had completely lost all ability to communicate ...

No News from the Sea Bed

 

She's left a breathing replica

under the one white cover

but has herself been gone now

three long months.

 

A life line is attached to where

she wanders on the sea floor,

diver drawn to the depths

where light is absent

and the weight of water crushes.

 

Nurses come to measure

the fathoms paid out on her line,

take soundings.

None of them can reel her in

from where she's gone.

It may be only the line's own weight

that makes it seem

she's still there at the end of it.

 

Those who love her come to sit here,

and tell each other stories to remind her,

play music for her to tempt her back,

if she can hear, if she could bear

to climb the long miles up to light again.

 

Only the diving whales can reach her,

sounding and singing where she may still walk alone.

 

There's no sign in this ordinary room

that they hold here some who perhaps would rather

slip the hook and sink into the dark,

but who sometimes slowly surface,

bleached voyagers with altered faces

needing to be taught to eat,

to walk, to speak again.