Byron moved through water
Like he was treading on egg shells
Like the surface could crack
Like the tinkles laughed and pointed and stared
Byron Moved through waves
As if they bit
As if the ripples burned
As if submergence would consume his tiny frame
As if the lapping waters stung the palms of his hands
Through the saturation and drenching and soaking
Byron clamped his eyes against the spray
Twisted his hands into fists in the ebbs
Breathed in the mists
And screamed at the flows until his screams were drowned
And stopped
A light shone at his feet
and it was alright
Bubbles plinked by his ears
and they were alright
Rain pattered from above
and it was alright
Byron cupped water into his mouth
and found he could sing
Rubbed splashes into his eyes
and saw rhythms
Drizzled drips along the bend of his arms
and smiled.
Byron is dancing through deludes
In a sponge suit
With a starfish helmet
Byron is beaming
Byron is swaying in gushes
on a lido of pops
With an orange straw twixt his teeth
Byron is giggling
Byron is hurling arcs of water
at land locked sabre tooths
With mice balanced on his ears
Byron is laughing
Byron is diving off the high-board
with divers boots
and yesterdays Times open on the sports section.
Byron is floating under a squirting umbrella
in a yellow water ozzing mac
drinking from a rimless cup
Byron is laughing
Byron is blowing green smoke into opaque bubbles
with a song
Byron is fishing goggles from swimmers faces
Byron is splashing chalk masterpieces for the hell of it
Byron is laughing
Byron is splashing the tension
With bladed hands
With needled limbs
With a gnashing, grinning, guffawing mouth.
And Byron is laughing.
By Joseph Coelho
