Monday, 13 December 2010

Blind Man's Beach

I can see,
                what you see is a shoreline:
washed up old bottles and
golden copper clams blubbling
up from the mints deep below.

You can hear the wind,
                                     hooting its bagpipe choir,
swooping over with the seagulls.
A fleet of sunbeaked scavengers,
scourging the skies.

Their bodies:
                     Cannonfire launched into the sea;
their bayonet beaks
spearing colourless fish until
their fins are shredded dust.

Gasping for breath on the beach:
bulbous eyes bulging,
a lame dance of mercy,
                                    the prey dies.

I can tell,
               what you see is a shoreline,
A grey beach. A grave.

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