The Boy who Loved Water
Michele Witthaus
The thing they remember about him –
those whose paths crossed with his
in the refugee camps of Turkey, Italy and France –
is how much he loved water.
He always wanted to play at the shared pumps
that served so many in the camps.
Perhaps his parents took advantage of this
to coax him onto the next boat, and the next;
as they waded in knee-high shallows
towards the flimsy craft,
allowing his toes to skim the surface,
making it a game for him,
the boy too young to understand
the asymmetry of risk that his mother and father
must embrace, over and over again.
Relatives recall his sunny disposition,
this toddler pictured with dimpled cheeks
and tousled hair, damp and freshly washed.
Soon bathtime became a tub of cold water
shared between many in the open air.
Two thirds of his life spent on the move,
in a relentless trek away from home;
this well-loved child, held close since birth.
How did he travel so far, all alone?
After that third attempt at the Channel,
he fell, with his mother, father,
brother and sister, beneath the waves.
this child who once had splashed and chuckled,
now swept drifting away from them,
currents carrying him the wrong way.
Not a soul to witness his passing
but curious dolphins or seals in the mist,
until, all those miles and countries later,
the boy who loved water was gently raised
from the cold Norwegian brine
into the ceaseless rain.
About the subject of this poem: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2021/jun/08/artins-journey-asylum-seeker-speaks-of-the-smuggling-trade-that-killed-iranian-baby
those whose paths crossed with his
in the refugee camps of Turkey, Italy and France –
is how much he loved water.
He always wanted to play at the shared pumps
that served so many in the camps.
Perhaps his parents took advantage of this
to coax him onto the next boat, and the next;
as they waded in knee-high shallows
towards the flimsy craft,
allowing his toes to skim the surface,
making it a game for him,
the boy too young to understand
the asymmetry of risk that his mother and father
must embrace, over and over again.
Relatives recall his sunny disposition,
this toddler pictured with dimpled cheeks
and tousled hair, damp and freshly washed.
Soon bathtime became a tub of cold water
shared between many in the open air.
Two thirds of his life spent on the move,
in a relentless trek away from home;
this well-loved child, held close since birth.
How did he travel so far, all alone?
After that third attempt at the Channel,
he fell, with his mother, father,
brother and sister, beneath the waves.
this child who once had splashed and chuckled,
now swept drifting away from them,
currents carrying him the wrong way.
Not a soul to witness his passing
but curious dolphins or seals in the mist,
until, all those miles and countries later,
the boy who loved water was gently raised
from the cold Norwegian brine
into the ceaseless rain.
About the subject of this poem: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2021/jun/08/artins-journey-asylum-seeker-speaks-of-the-smuggling-trade-that-killed-iranian-baby
Michele Witthaus is based in the UK. Her writing has appeared in a number of anthologies and other publications, and her pamphlet, From a Sheltered Place, was published in August 2020 by Wild Pressed Books. She is the 2020 winner of Leicester Writers’ Club’s Ena Young Award for Poetry.
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