Death Comes To Fleetwood
Scraped by the sloughing of the Irish sea.
Subtracting at every withdrawal
more of the life,
encasing each grain of sand,
it takes away the land.
Winding wind,
lifting in each updraught,
in tiny increments
a dust,
a black bag.
A fragment of the breath.
Winnowing away across the grey water
sweeping over coastline,
on the dripping beaks of gulls
the tyres of cars
screaming down Amounderness.
On the feet of the people, grey slabs of faces,
encased in sweating buses
running away.
On the rudders and the cod ends of
trawlers chuffing trudging ploughing doggy paddle
out to sea.
On the slimy Plastic rounded corner
of fish boxes.
Life,
packed tight in grey ice
life in dead eyes and silver scales.
Life in aspiration,
choking on
pawnshops
and acrylic sweaters the colour of geraniums in the market
and Brighthouse stores
and Ladbrokes
and White Lightning.
winston plowes
Thu 18th Feb 2010 00:16
Smashing stuff again Rachel... well done. Win