water, the young man, really a boy, had
probably already fallen from the kayak,
and was struggling to keep his head up,
the salt water thicker with each pull of his
arms, the ragged bulk of the island dragging
behind – houses with windows flaring,
This poem. It's finished at last. It began with the death of a young man by drowning - in the part of the harbour we look out onto from our house. That day, my sons were in the kitchen. I was there, too. We weren't aware what was happening until later in the week, but that evening, we remember the helicopters and wondered if someone was stuck in the bush up behind us. They were looking for him. We didn't know.