Double Effort
by Francis Bainton
The same push forwards. The boat wobbles a little, tilting on the top of the water. Between your knees is a half-empty wine bottle. I can see the sun is going to set – birds race for insects above us, and later bats will join them, flitting to catch the moths and flies. There, around the hues of blue to orange the sky is melting the remains of evening.
Somewhere after this weekend the office chair awaits, rancid with intent. I never knew the cost of waiting before – a struggle to prise the life from empty rooms.
We have understayed our welcome here where the water holds us on the lake, and your finger is flashing with our recent gold while you work the oar. Your eyes are holding mine: love as a strange hex.
We have understayed our welcome here where the water holds us on the lake, and your finger is flashing with our recent gold while you work the oar. Your eyes are holding mine: love as a strange hex.
Ring is a shape and a sound and a noun and a verb. Hold is something we do and the place in the ship which keeps the goods. Deep below: mindless water breathers quest invisible, and now the bats are out. The same push forwards.
Francis Bainton is a writer based in South London. He writes short stories, microfiction and prose poetry. He is currently working on his first collection.