Anticipating our zigzag, as if somehow
By information or low
Cunning, she knew our speed
And course, she contrived a need
For company. She came at us
From all angles, silently, without fuss,
A whine on the asdic, homing in.
We readied depth charges, prepared
Our tin fish. She moved away,
Out of the sea’s swing and sway,
As if hurt, a rebuffed lover,
Whose hide-and-seek was over.
We never fired, nor she either,
Her hull like wet liquorice slipping
Fathoms below us, her bleeping
A reminder like the weather
Of death’s attention. In dreams
Her name haunts me sometimes.
‘You, too,’ a familiar that rhymes
With everything, except what it seems.