each year another recreational diver dies out in the Flow
and every year I note it down
in prose or poetry, whichever way it comes

that Sea at the end of the road
I can see it from my perch by the window
in storm or flat calm and anything in between

divers come from around the Globe
to dive the first and second world war wrecks
-rusting hulks deep in the cold depths

Scapa Flow, the graveyard of sailors
just out there beyond my window
someone new dies each diving season

its strange to be living in such splendid beauty
next to so much yearly tragedy
where someone drowns each year.