Undercurrent echoes of living flesh
sing through half-sunken subs:
sounds that, leaving Lincolnshire
and heading South, bounce around
The Wash, the Yarmouth Coast,
towards Sheerness.
In search of – what?
A rusty skeleton?
She hears his hunger songs and sings to him
with metal tongue, her own
‘Ich weiß es nicht.’
Her iron coffin voice –
depth charged, displaced –
rides North on winter waves.
She waits.
Then tries again.
Wo sind Sie jetzt?
Mud banks and hostile sands.
With ferrous blood in ferrous veins
and heavy heart,
she waits.
