The tide came to take you like it took Simon, dead upon the sand, silvered by the moonlight, made marble and whole beneath the troubled clouds. The watery angels dressing his hair lifted him gently and bore him out to sea. Were you as free when you travelled past the blank faces of children, the cold, clutching hands of the living? Nights when I left my body and walked the streets wet with light then crossed the line, between the real and the really imagined, I thought I had found the stuff of life; a mind, an interface and time eternally mine. But certainty has slipped its mooring and drifted out to sea, little rudderless dinghy. The horizon seems hand-painted, the sun daubed there haphazardly to shine upon the cresting waves. Days piggyback on days and I bathe in the warm water of the shallows with the darting whitebait as if unafraid but on my back I fear a hole in the design, a tear in the blue up there. I fish for meaning: wind lifting sand and leaving corrugations, fishermen put-putting in old wooden boats against the tide, my breath in and out until I am just electricity, the heady stuff of someone’s memory, another nagging question for the living.