Floating

Floating

Quiet night on the river

Waves lapping, slapping gently

Against the side of the boat

Grinding oars the only sound

Creaking, squeaking

Mist, milky, hangs above the surface,

Curls and swirls around.

Lamp held aloft

To light the ferryman’s way

Glimmering through the gloom

Catching pale reflections

From the ripples, then a sudden cry,

Shattering the calm.

Something in the water,

Floating, face-down, a body,

Marks, scars and muddy streaks

Naked, white, gleaming flesh

Turned by the boat-hook,

What’s left of a man,

Face half-eaten, far from fresh.

Nibbled and gnawed

By river creatures

Fish and frogs, river rats.

Dumped upstream somewhere

For someone else to find.

Hauled aboard with grudging effort,

Dirt-smeared, stinking, putrid,

A rotten fish to catch

Bruises on the buttocks,

Scratches, bloody wounds,

Tattered torso,

Tattoos and piercings

A victim easy to identify

By those who do such work.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016