Grey silhouette of screeching gull
soars startled into flight;
First glitter on a foreign shore,
Behold the coming night.
Old fisherman alone, cocooned,
baring weathered flesh;
Rests his line on steady frame,
Sits picking at his net.
The distant hills grow dim, then dark,
Lie silently to rest;
Their form against the setting sun
a man’s recumbent breast.
His breath the gently smoking filth
exhaled from industry,
His hair a golden lion’s mane
swept by a spoiled sea.
Bathed in the waves a plastic plague
floats, hidden from his eye,
Consumed then doomed to limbo;
vague and deathly rolling by.
Now, one by one the lights appear
along the bony coast,
their brightness sucked from deep within
the body of their host.