Two passports are bouncing off the sea bed,
touching each other.
In silent tango with lifted arms
the two are whirling, then stalling.
Border stamps fade in salty water,
pages saturated with hope and grief
forever opening and closing.
Meanwhile, 5 kilometres away
a woman is feeling her side pocket
looking at a man from the Sea Rescue.
He phones his wife:
“stuffed cabbage leaves gone cold”
but never mind.
Seagulls, wooden puppets
on invisible strings
circle the coast counting inflated arm bands.
Still, down below, bunches of sea weed
Like spoilt teenagers,
their tentacles shimmer,
even in time of death they seek entertainment.
The storm is gone and Sun
casts a life line to the Sea…
but it’s too late.