Drifting

Drifting

In thrall to the flow of things

The ebb of low tide

Exposing its underbelly

The stink of rotting weed

The tangle of Mangrove

Evil insects with little time

To press their claim for fame

Biting anything that moves,

All manner of flesh laid to waste

On a mudbank.

I am reminded of bacteria

The host of infestation

I am multitude

In various stages of decay

So much of me, already dead.

A sliver of silver sunlight

Stretched out in a thin line

From North to South

The Horizon

So prominent in decline

The wonder of tall ships

Beating through the breakers

Fighting their way

Between jagged rocks

Angered megaliths

Un-made by man

The sharp-edged form of them

Too violently indisposed

To taming.

Tearing at my thin flesh

In the weft of my imagination

Where all things meet

Vying for a position

At the vanguard of my

Pre-occupation

So easily dissuaded from complying

With convention

As it slips easily

From one vague fascination

Unto the next.