Friday, 25 March 2011
Man leaving his ships behind
Wet sand as you reach land, the prow
making an incision in that smoothed out surface
but this new earth, this terra nullius,
won't bleed, like the old
never bleed. The ship in the roads
like a cut umbilical cord
the end of a rope.
You don't turn around.
You make deep imprints in the sand with your feet,
as if to say: I was here
or maybe you stake your claim
the way children do with every touch.
Oh well, it's harmless enough;
when the tide withdraws
they'll be gone - not a sign of you.
Inland you do greater harm,
cut down trees, strip mine the mountains,
build, first a church, then a shopping mall, a parking structure.
As night comes on it's so bright
the stars can't be seen.
If night is like day, when, oh when,
will we get to enact our play
our well-rehearsed pantomime.
And what's worse, how will you find
your way home, how will you know for sure
earth's end and heaven's onslaught.