In my deep, dark murky dreams,
Where everything is as it seems,
The old fish looms out of the blur,
A turning moon, Blueback’s eyes were,
Swimming here, swimming there,
Remembering things without a care,
Some things I want, some unexpected,
But in my dreams I fully rested.
Down a crevice, once we trekked,
Cold, pale blue water, yes I checked,
Old Blueback let me grab his fins,
And to the bottom, walls to my skin,
I saw a horrifying sight,
Of sailors dead, floating through the night,
Their glass eyes open, I nearly screamed,
But it’s alright, it’s just a dream.
Through more drowned people, I was led,
Blueback leading up ahead,
Saw little girls with drifting hair,
And more dead sailors, out of air,
With puffy hands, they’re dead and cold,
Their big brass buttons, gleaming gold.
And at the end, Mad Macka lay,
Beside my father, clear as day.
Blueback hovered, right above,
The ragged body of the father I love,
A gaping hole, just at his side,
The indication of how he’d died,
His skin was grey, his eyelids pearly,
At thirty-two, he had died early,
Looking peaceful, fast asleep,
Outstretched a hand to touch his cheek.