The gentle hand stroking your face
Tiny tendrils creeping up
Starting at your toes, then fingers
And working up;
Never intruding, never violent
Just the right kind of soft
All of a sudden, you aren't drowning anymore
The water under your back;
Threatening to swallow you up into its hungry maw,
Tangible, viscous, holding you up.
You find you can breathe again,
Or at least, breathe without ink-water racing up your nose
Down your wind-pipe,
On impulse, you open your eyes
And you see the sun's golden rays,
Stroking your face.