Mother's Ruin

Salty air pelts his face with coarse winds,
Each granule bitter in its velocity; tiny teeth and claws
Riding on the sea air. Feathers must offer protection
As the sky is spattered with birds, screaming obscenities
To each other, and to the lone figure that seems to haunt
The beach like the ghost of a sailor drowned at sea so long ago.
The sky is that sort of grey that sucks you in; your eyes
Scour the firmament for the horizon, but it crashes into the sea
Like Iccarus, blending flesh and bone with water, to become one.
The sky and sea are one. Only the black rocks that wrap their arms
Around the cove stand out like the cragged spines of two
Dead dinosaurs. The gentle rasp of the tide, as it steals the beach
One grain of sand at a time and brings it back sodden, sounds
Too perfect, artificial almost. Fortunately the shattering caws above
Ruin it just that perfect amount. The lonely figure wanders
The length of the beach collecting rocks that pierce the sand,
Each one like some petrified skull; the brains are rock too.
The pockets on his coat accommodate the stones almost too
Perfectly. Some that fit just right are dropped back onto the dull
Sand and replaced with more ill-fitting ones. A bird shits a white
Bomb down to the earth with a vicious precision, making his coat
That little bit less perfect. A pathetic muscle spasms in his cheek
Forcing one side of his mouth to smile, the other half fallen
Like a stroke victim. The unfamiliar feeling soon passes. The muscle
Goes back to its usual position, a slave to gravity and gravity.
The man stands with his feet in the cold grey water, before it rushes
Away like a giggling school girl, only to return for another wet kiss,
And away again. He pursues. A few steps into the murky foam-laced
Sea and his shoes are instantly full of water and feet; his trousers soaking up
Salty ocean as if they were dying of thirst. When the sea rose to his
Knees he stopped and looked up into the vast depressing sky; at the
Circling birds above; at the one gargantuan cloud that hovered over
The scene – one giant eye witnessing something dreadful, and unable
To look away – and the salty water from his eyes dived into the similar
Substance below. The tears came hot and stinging, like real tears, and
He remembered how he cried like this sprawled on the floor of the
Disabled toilet in the hospice, that appalling place, while his family stood
Around the bed and stared at her body heartlessly disappearing.
They cried together and he cried alone. They cried single diamond tears
And he cried globulous sticky tears that seemed to strip the skin
From his face; his mouth wide open in despair, as wide as the sea.
His mother’s mother was dead, and with her died his mother’s spirit.
The black shroud of grief that suffocated the house made him feel
Like a murderer. He hadn’t killed anyone (yet) but he was prepared
To create this scene again, knowingly, like some perverted artist who
Paints with feelings and then burns the canvas. It was coming,
And he was aware that he was going to make his mother grieve again.
The wind was picking up and it played roughly with his hair,
Its fingers harsh and hard, and he stared straight out to sea.
He waded further in, each step becoming more difficult, as if the sea
Herself was restraining him, urging him to return to the beach.
There was nowhere to return to. He had set fire to his car just off
From the shore, the roaring flames blinding against the sombre tones
Of the surrounding area. He headed to the beach as it burned, metal
And glass feeble against the flame.
The sea would not stop him. The water was waist high and it continued
To block his advances, now numbing his legs so they couldn’t move.
There was no excitement. This moment had been looming for six years
And yet there was no sense of accomplishment. For six years the same
Resolutions were made as the Midnight bells of New Year’s tolled like
Unholy death knells. This would be the year. He was always too
Cowardly to do it though. He often thought why people think it is
Gutless to commit death upon oneself, when in reality it’s gutless
To want to and not. Hoping to be killed by some other means is no
Way to go about dying. It has no courage to it. For years he longed to
Be institutionalised. It seemed the most wonderful thing: no jobs, or bills,
Or social situations, or needs, or desires. They would only expect truth so
He could deceitfully tell them lies. He could be as fake as he really was.
But it wasn’t to be. Trudging through six years, slowly losing all sense of
Feeling, like the legs that rigidly held him upright in the freezing sea.
He dropped backwards, like a falling tree (he didn’t make a sound).
The rock-skulls in his pockets pulled him under, and the sea enveloped
Him like a mother to her injured child. She soon forgot her reservations
And sucked him down under the shallow waters until they shared a bed.
The great grey canvas above him faded, and his mother’s voice bounded
Through the waters. To lose a mother or child, which is worse? the sea asked.
His mother would soon be able to answer that.
He closed his eyes, and she was ruined.