A ring around the Roses, river going nowhere, ouroboros snaking its way back to the start, over and over again. Goldfish asking, “Haven’t we been here before?” and “Are we nearly there yet?” like children in the back seat. Defence is the best offence, they say, full of eels and pike, slippery slopes and spiked jaws, ready to snap into action. Steep sides and woebetide anyone who clambers down in the drunken dark, larking for a swim and a kiss with the deep.
But what really stands between the inner sanctum and the world, the only boundary, the thinnest skin, the softest veil? A curtain of water, swirling thoughts and eddying pretences. And even if we drained you, wouldn’t we just be staring disappointedly into a muddy mire, fins faintly flapping here and there? Best you carry on going in circles then, and let the lilies float, remembering what is at stake and using the drawbridge when needs must.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016