A grey, mid-winter dawn. Two black
and thin-limbed sons, we rowed across
the glass
of sea which broke, and flowed around
the oars each probe. Chilled we sat,
face to face,
and left a line of corks,
bobbing.
Dimensionless, or somehow thin, our father
Called to us; a strong voice, disembodied,
no part of him, skipping from the shore
as in the net four cord caught fish
flapped,
the ripples running all ways, always
You saw his death, met his set stare,
were left as his eyes became as drains.
I, three hundred miles away, hung from
The phone and mouthed the beeps.
I wish for lines to join us now.
and thin-limbed sons, we rowed across
the glass
of sea which broke, and flowed around
the oars each probe. Chilled we sat,
face to face,
and left a line of corks,
bobbing.
Dimensionless, or somehow thin, our father
Called to us; a strong voice, disembodied,
no part of him, skipping from the shore
as in the net four cord caught fish
flapped,
the ripples running all ways, always
You saw his death, met his set stare,
were left as his eyes became as drains.
I, three hundred miles away, hung from
The phone and mouthed the beeps.
I wish for lines to join us now.
Written & Spoken by Kim Scott
Sound Design and Music by Marianthe Loucataris
Sound Design and Music by Marianthe Loucataris
