Swimmer

For Frances Lawrence

He bled an ocean deep.
Filling your rock pools,
with rage.

But it's not your fault,
the tragic demise.

It was to the bad hands,
of generation.

The unloved boy,
worn out,
made killer.

'There is greatness
in every child'.
Your late husband,
Phillip once said.

You should believe this.
Clench his rope.
Tight.

Pull away,
from this riptide,
of regret.

Sweet swimmer.