Legion

Time passes;
Disguised in
small parables of
cormorants cries
on a wind-pared sea.

In the dead
of Sunday morning,
cigarette ends and waste paper
chase each other
across a deserted fairground.

The harbour steps cling
to strands of seaweed
and the ghost of footprints,
as a black dog hunts endless waves
past a trawler`s silhouette.

And somewhere,
between what might have beens
there is normality.

A radio`s inanity,
a taste of breakfast,
the Lord`s prayer.

Unmourned,
in this blue
ever-moving stillness,
I walk with
so many of you.