In the half light of the new moon the canal is an oil slick, rippleless and unmoving – pointless. A blanket of mist clings to its surface and swirls. And it is only when I gently push back her hair to kiss the cheek just below the eye that I notice how cold she is. I button up her coat and pull the collar up around the ears. Even in stout shoes my feet are cold in the wet grass.
I am struck by the stars’ reflection in the black mirror of the water’s surface, something I’d not considered possible before. But so many things that did not seem possible then, before, must be possible now, after. Whatever ‘was’ then, is ‘not’ now.
Her eyes are closed, and I touch the lids gently and move my finger in a tight circle, the skin stretching and rucking under my fingertip. I kiss her again, this time on the forehead. A few stray hairs stick to my lip so that when I pull back they catch and are drawn back with my retreat. I break the connection with a chop of my hand and brush them back into place. I hear a vehicle on the distant road. I know it is time.
I take her to the edge and, standing behind her, my arms reaching around to her chest, lower her feet into the water. When the water level is at her knees, I release my grip and she slips quietly, perfectly, cutting through the blackness. Then she is gone with a comical plop as the head disappears and ripples dash across to the other bank. Now I realise that I should have wieghed her down, she is coming back. I think of Millais’ Ophelia and turn to search for stones.
Recent Comments