Eschatos Poem by cahen thrips

If I should maunder on the marsh
and wade through life in this unsure March,
should I make preparation to meet my future?

Yet another question but where the answer?
Does anybody care?
Right here is all I have: this splendid isolation
with a wound too deep to be repaired.

Curlews cry as I approach and
eyes of hauled-out seals reproach;
will nature's purpose provide me with a suture?

if only I could dare to swim
in these therapeutic opaque waters,
dare to swim beyond horizons,
dare to reach where a siren calls us -
so then in balsam arms I'll drown
and perhaps my body never found.

Seals slip silent beneath the surface
soon forgetting what they saw;
I'll likely float with sightless eyes
and then I will be here no more.

It's OK - I'm not that brave.

March 2023