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.

Send Letters To:

The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN

letters@lrb.co.uk

Please include name, address, and a telephone number.

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences