by Tracy Davidson
I tread water and watch you on the edge
of the shore as you stand still,
eyes shut, face upturned, arms
reaching out as though to pull
the stars down from the sky.
By the light of the moon I see your smile
as you breathe in that familiar salty air
and dig your toes into the wet sand,
letting the surf gently lap your ankles,
like we used to do when young.
I see you as you were then, before
the dark cloud came, before the chemo
took away your golden hair
and turned your arms to twigs,
before we lost our future.
You open your eyes, and the pain
that has showed in them for months, has gone.
You wade, then swim, out to join me,
I take you in my arms
and let the sea carry us away.
Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Writers Digest, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Artificium, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR and In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.