trout

Soundings

On coming back early from Dunedin.

Michael Hall

I wake up
heard a submarine
sounding.

Not the breathing
of the baby.
The deep element of her.

A sonar
as if looking for whales
icebergs or

other submarines.
Shapes that make up the invisible turning
mobile
above the bed.

There is nothing
of course, but

a bedroom ceiling.
Dull carpet of the ocean floor.
The dim doubtful light

of curtains.
The luminescent green fish of the alarm clock.
Early morning rain patter on the window.