Our blades scoop up cotton rosebuds,
grey weed, heavy clay.
A fine day to be face down,
shadowed on the river bottom
in a slow dense spin.
This old girl, hull down,
drifted in an unnoticed hour
from noisy loving childhood
to silent old age.

We are wary of the water logged.
Do we hold arms, feet or clothes
to lift her dead weight
dripping on the landing stage?
The sun stiffens her wax to effigy
brushed by roses caught in the breeze

We sit with the dismal dead
and suppress a laugh,
or pick at grass in the warmth.

When her son comes,
his face dappled with dread,
he grips binoculars.
A swift look staggers him.
He deflates, boyhood wheezing
finally from middle age
with an acrid rattle.

“She tried this once before” he murmers,
chokes out one more word and stops.
We have no response, but await the police
with guilty eagerness,
and in silence.