The Islanders

The log rots all on its own

In gentle moments

As the song of salt,

The unlimited music,

Carries it off, dot by dot.

The song is meek and mild,

And mild and meek, and wild -

The player sounds a toneless thunder bell burst

Which rings down strings of electric silver rain

That fill shells and pools and fizz.

And the ragged people

Stand in anoraks, with dogs,

Smelling in the sound, stuck in the sand just shouting

As the notes slip into their nostrils, touch their tongues and throats

And strip away each superfluous vowel,

Chip chunks from their r's

So they stutter as they roll back out.

The sodium inside this music

Sucks all the moisture from their skin

And their humour, and their hands.

As the song thins out on the wind,

It leaves them with faces like abandoned buildings,

All open and exposed and rusty,

And the buildings stand, like old abandoned faces,

Dour, desperate, trustworthy.