What Sea Shells See
This time of year the beach is clear
at five o’clock the sky trails its skirt of drizzle,
the sea can barely roll itself to shore
as if when no-one is looking it takes a break.
The dog shits on the sand which is actually shit anyway,
people forget this and make us take the shit away,
but the beach is shit anyway.
A plastic bag containing dog shit now sits on my kitchen table.
At six thirty I catch the shipping forecast
it seems the sea is waking to dulcet English tones,
I’ve always liked the sound of Cromarty
there are battleships there sunken in time.
The dog shit bag goes into a plastic bin,
on Thursday I put it in the street and it disappears.
Six weeks later it is floating Mid-Atlantic,
an Asian business conglomerate disposes of it without a whiff.
The dog is in the lounge licking its balls,
the house pretends to sleep as its gutters piss acid rain.
Tomorrow I’ll walk the dog again,
the sea will sleep, the ships will sail, and bank accounts will fill.
On the windowsill a jar of Sea Shells whisper to each other,
they imagine the sound of oceans drifting through deep trenches
and wonder why they cannot be returned home,
while mankind steals the planet and empties its discard into seas.