VOICE OVER

After so many days trampling a sea
heavy as his home soil,
reduced to a single intention
like a bottled message
and able to recognise
ten distinct patterns in leeward foam,
he began to draw comfort from the swell
turning to him like the shoulder
of his sleeping wife. Rescued,
he lay on a narrow bunk
treading water, his fractious limbs
still scrawling the urgent translation
of need into action. Submariners
planted their cable-hard hands
on his pillow, leaned over him
with a tenderness they thought
they had forfeited to war, whispered
all was well. Hollowed by the cries
of those left reaching for hand-holds
as they dived for cover, they took turns
to smooth his legs with oil,
drew the blanket up
and crooned old songs.
It was the doctor’s silvery
potion of reason that broke his stride.
He was walking now, uphill, along
the line of argument
and it was growing dark.
Someone had ploughed the home paddock
in his absence; breakers of loam
clung to his boots. Upstairs a light was on.
She would be bent to her sewing.
He raised his eyes.

© Louise Oxley