Gone the salt-washed oyster-shell
of sky, the bonxies’ aerobatic jazz,
bass riff of tractor and ferry.
Gone the chorusline of jiving
thrift, the tide’s cool blues,
the intemperate applause of gulls.
Gone the indigo intermezzi,
Morning’s glimmer keeking
between midnight’s eyelids.
From a Dark Island Beer box,
partans to clean, for tea. I crack
claws, scoop meat, dispose
of still warm dead-man’s fingers,
cut my thumb, lick at the sting
of split skin, backtrack to a boat,
the Northern Lights, in trouble:
from the dark deep its crew
conjuring Harpy, Siren, Valkyr.