Poetry

He finds her. Death like, she stares
As if from beneath water. Weeds drift
Across her pallid cheek, once so warm.
Her body does not seem real as the water blurs
What it has taken from the land of the living.

The moment is still. He does not feel
Sick yet. She lies so quiet, he can almost fool himself
That she is merely sleeping, but for the pond weed
And the flowers, floating lifeless
On the surface above her.