Ping
Bereft in brine but sitting
soldier-straight
in ship-shape rows of bloated, silted
blanks;
the only sound marauding through the
seats
a distant ping that you can’t hear, nor
them
with plaintive cries as sonars beep,
that’s it
but no, it’s just another well-chased
goose
and still you sit, still belted up but
lost
in black but still no sign; the orange
box
that hides away, Pandora of Malay
she lies in weight of deathly, plankton
souls
with lid still sealed and secrets
unrevealed;
as ships and planes still comb
unchartered lanes
for pips again she fades, her seventh
veil
the final tale, her beacon fails and
dies
its last: MH three-seventy, goodbye.
© Nigel Pamenter 2014
The right of Nigel Pamenter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.
The right of Nigel Pamenter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.
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