Watching from the Pillbox

March now, but still contorted to my post I rest
Ash-dusted dunes a bitter host
And the clouds confess –
Nothing.

Cancerous light envelops, entangles brown sea
And spreads its dirty lies.
Oh that I could sculpt the scene -
White sand, white sheets and nuzzling thighs,
Not fear-hung waves ever fucking Time,
Trapping fish with dinner plate eyes.

Down telescope the wreck yawns statuesque.
But lifting metal scrapes wet skull
Till thoughts of a dawn are paste
And dull salt-smattered gales taste so silent
Beside mother’s vicious siren -
That goose-stain from the mud-flats - grotesque.