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
restored
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