Otters Gaynor Kane

Gaynor Kane

Otters

In the lilo dip of a decade-old mattress, gliding, dozing off; the rumble of rhythmic snores like poolside chatter. I’m sandman caught, soaring, whirling now to fall furiously, a bolt back to berth. Hypnic jerk and ghostly impact leaves me awake and frightened.

He does not wake, but even in his sleep can sense my distress. He reaches out and holds my hand and then we are floating away, otters drifting downstream, with their little paws linked for fear of separation.

He leaves briefly to return with a pebble to stave winter hunger—blue-grey, white veined and heart-shaped. I gnaw on it as the sounds of another world creep in, the beeps, whirr of engines, a maintenance crew carrying out checks.

Prising my hand from his, I smooth his whiskers, wake him gently to roll on his back and wriggle a scratch. Later, walking alone along the towpath, watching white egret and long-legged heron fishing, I catch a flash of bronze fur ripple the river. Hand in pocket, I hold his heart.