Colin Will, _Marigold.

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Marigold.
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Bobbing beside the moored scampi-boat
an orange rubber glove floats finger-up;
a hand risen from the deep, in greeting or despair.

The sea moves it in a mermaid's wave,
gently rising, gently falling, turning,
but always with the wrist hidden.

I'm almost sure it's empty,
but the drowned have many tricks
to teach an old sea-dog.

Perhaps the strings that shift the fingers
stretch far down to bone claws
clutching at lost air. Perhaps.

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Colin Will
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