Lead Boots

She recalls the time before

his lead boots had

muddied the dense waters

of her existence,

a time she left barnacled wreckage

undisturbed,

as if years since the burial.

 

Craving oxygen she’d surfaced,

portraying a dramaturgy

of frivolous, effusive behaviour;

Tourists view.

 

Witnessing purity wrapped in splendor,

he’d sought ownership of her narrative

trading pages of his own

from beer stained scripture.

 

Her creative non-fiction,

eyes and mouth in conflict,

detained him in a moments lifetime,

hogs tongue lapping,

craving intimacy.

 

In those, rib cage concertinaed moments,

one thumping heart,

arms and legs locked in twin-engine fury,

she steered him to the brink;

he sensed danger,

future stubborn as memory,

past quickening his stroke.

 

The greater the flaw

the deeper he trawled;

she longed for salvation,

he swallowed her whole,

feeding his hunger,

challenging debenture offerings,  

for full disclosure.

 

He gorged,

she wept upon a valedictory gesture.

 

And now?

as caution settled on debris,

a mere three hours from sinking,

she swore she’d

never surface again.

© 2017, David Ratcliffe (David Poetry Website)