Saturday, 2 April 2011

On The (Cold) Beach

Staring into a graphite sky, pricked with white

feathered comets skimming the wavetops

and a concomitant armada

riding the rolling horses foaming

toward the strand,

I, still and intent, let the wind and salt enjoy

an astringent feast on the flesh that

I leave exposed

as I stand on a primeval carpet

of crushed shells

Besides me lies a skeletal hulk with rusted coat,

draped with weed, fast with limpet buttons,

bow to the waves

proud and trimmed true

even in death.

Tattered rags of humanity flap around the shore,

like all the dead summers frayed flags

wind ravaged

and stripped of any

thermic presage

High above my head the escarpment is crumbling

and its restless ossuary of mortified lees

casts down

a leviathan of

chalky exudate

the downfall from an unremitting disintegration

in our less than dignified retreat from a land

secure underfoot

to ancient seabed


No comments:

Post a Comment