Thursday, 9 May 2013

The Sea Shell Gatherers

Grey sky. Threat of rain.
The boy stands on the sand
sifting it with his hands.
Tattoo on the fold of skin
between thumb and forefinger.
Silver rings that aren't really silver
on three fingers.
Lots of bling.
Nicotine stains.
Face shrouded.
Wolf lean.

Shopping trolley.
He tosses shells into the wire belly.
It takes him all day. Doesn't mind the rain.

Pushes the trolley over the sand.
Hauls it onto the promenade.
Walks it through the town.
Doesn't look up, the face
hidden by the hood,
the long black peak of his cap,
burning brand, green M
blazing on the headband.

Through a whispering wood.
The dual carriageway,
if he tries hard enough,
and boy does he try -
sounds like a river
until he comes to a town
with his trolley full of shells.

When the invaders
landed on Britannica's
shores they looked to their leader
unsure of his intentions. Caligula
looked to the skies.

Said 'gather seashells.' 


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