In the evening we walk past
the ruined castle towards the loch.

The sun is setting behind us.
There is a walled garden full

of rose bushes without a single
bloom. It’s too late in the season.

I read about the receding waters
of Lake Mead, and how the remains

of bodies began to surface. Did they
fall? Jump? Were they thrown? Sunk?

When I first learned how to swim,
my brother would dive underwater

and close a hand around my ankle.
My panicked kicking did the rest.

If a ghost catches you, they will
take your body. You’ll trade places.

If I’m not careful, I’ll remember
what it feels like to float, unanchored.

We stand by the bank as the light fails,
as the swans turn to grey, then black.