Tide laps at my feet.
Soon it will cover my knees.
Before long I will be beneath it.
I do not move.
I do not wave or shout for help.
Motionless: My heavy iron frame,
quiescent in ice-cold water.
I cannot feel the murky waves
lick my senseless face.
My rigid fingers do not know
the ebb and flow
between them.
Unaware: little fish dance
in and out of my sturdy toes.
Seaweed tentacles
tangle-up my weighty legs.
I do not struggle,
yearning to be free.
I am what I can only be:
A watcher – A voyeur.
A figure on a shore.
Never windswept, rain-soaked
sun-kissed or frozen.
I am solid, constant,
open to the prevalent sky
in all my glorious nakedness.
But… am I dreaming of another place
where feet touch grass
instead of shifting sand?
where I might
feel and walk and breathe?
If I did, would I be free?
Or is Freedom here,
where turbulent winds and waves
never stir me
and Time cannot decay?
(Antony Gormley’s Iron men on Crosby Beach)
© 2018 Bev Clark
