Monday, 15 September 2014

Island



From the mainland,
a broken tooth of island.

First men in the world, we aliens
rise at dawn for the sailing
out of each separate cranium.

Sand, sea water and cement.
Just a few more feet gained in the attempt
to build the bleak house you have dreamt
from the red dregs of wine
following a string of twine.
Buckled ply,
a shovel blade combines
the slitting, splitting of bags.
Stray ashes get blown on the crags
as long waves fool
the forgetful time that lags.

Cast iron cannons,
Victorian barracks
shield the cliff
from Napoleonic attacks.

The last boat
timed for the tide won’t wait
for the flicker of the first bat.

Each of us lost, ghosts in our own vortex.

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