The Ironies

Bitter the ironies,
Fuel of my life,
Devourer of time,
A grave for a wife.

Seeds in an apple
Letting trolls down,
I remembered you wearing
Your basque wedding gown.

All memories sealed
In a chest they had drowned,
Deep in sharp oceans,
A long-submerged town;

You can still see some rooftops
When you dive further down;
There’s the church belfry,
Brass bells make no sound.

I cannot choose living
With this charged weighted load,
For as soon as it’s given
I must cross their toll road

To pay with the striking,
The force and the blow,
So I hope you’ll forgive me
If I remain here below.

The Drowning Bride

The Queen of the Skies retired,
Long live our runway king;
Her assignation had three names,
It’s best not to question pretence.

Eulogies for a fuselage,
Front pages in the press,
But forestries are macadam
And all the workers left.

Newsreaders are enthusing,
A partisan casting and bribe,
Like praising skills of a killer,
Some words as sharp as knives.

They’ll read from flooded desks,
Drenched laptops and manilla files,
By sinking sails and tillers,
About my drowning bride.

Dina Morgabin

These kisses we missed
In other lives elsewhere,
These exquisite moments,

No wonder we arrived
At inevitable reunions where
I dreamed for years

Of lifting you up in my arms,
Passionate embraces,
Time repaired.

For as long as the seas
In our heritage are green,
And as long as the skies

Are propped by the dreams
Of atlases may we continue
To breathe and complete

The abstract truths
Dormant within our ribs
For such profound time

We almost forgot we exist.
My focus here is solely on
Your beauty and your gifts,

Your experiences,
Harmonising pleasure,
Retuning the truth

To satisfy the needs
Of an uncompassed ocean.
Here on this island,

Here with your bliss,
Now and forever
We will exist.

Once Or Twice

A deeper life,
An appropriate life,
Days mixed like blends
In Chinese Five Spice.

A meaningful life,
Enriching life,
All sounds entincing
If once, or twice.

Repeated as dreams
Repeat these beating
Hearts, our living surf,
But diving deeply

Only serves for purposes
Of strange, unusual shapes
And species, brings up
Forms untouched by rain

Or sleet or snow on my
Tongue, then leaves me
With a pressurised head,
And a moment of hurt.

Song Of The Atlantic Horseshoe Crab

Translucent blood siphoned
With syringes and pipes,
Your fluid inundates
Troughs, factory
Managers desperate
For profitable results
Turn graphs upside down
Just like the crabs in
The robotic hands
Of night-shift staff.

There are thousands
Of shelled companions
Held in vices and
Archaic contraptions
As far as the visiting
Eye can see.
Atavistically
They expected far
More universal blinks
On east coast sandbanks
With lamallae fins
Flicked like pages
In a novella
Held by the idle illiterate
Hand of the God
Of The Very Last
Sea Breeze.

Then your blood
Infused by oxygen
Turns to liquid blue
Like the manager’s
Nightcap Curaçao
Or a football team’s shirt
Sponsored by the industry,
And it is that cobalt
Saline-bred
Iridiscence
Giant pharmaceutical
Ostriches desire
In their hunt for clean
Chemical equipment.

So, sad specimens,
You are ritualistically
Exsanguinated
In factories where
Strip lighting flickers
And the workforce
Experience nightmares
Where crabs with giant
Poisonous incisors
Triumphantly cut
Out their underpaid hearts
On a daily basis.
Many awake at dawn
With sweat in their
Underwear.
The inventive
Revenge of Nature,
Your feet are your flags
And you sing in your sleep
For your native place
Where waves are high
And the waters are green
And the rockpools are deep.

They drop you off from tractors
Half-asleep, numb beneath
Layers of geology
Stored in your heart beat.
It’s worse for the males
Sometimes, too tired
To reproduce, and sometimes
For the larger females,
Caught in a predatory way
And unable to move.

What the trustees did not realise
With all those dollars counted,
Is that when the final carapace
Turns upside down, empty,
Hollow, held aloft
By a boy on the beach,
Like a sand timer with cracks,
Humanity’s luck falls out.

Pareidolia

Pelagic frogfish
In the sky,
Captured by a satellite.

Religious icons are
Baptised
In bathroom tiles.

Cumulonimbus heights
Before a storm
Transformed to toads

And turtledoves
High above
The dreams of love

I found in your words,
As comforting to me as
Waves on the coast,

The sound and scent
Of my homeland.
Have I learnt nothing,

For I yearned to return
To your love, but all
I find beachcombing

On the edge of the ocean,
My sand-swept existence,
Though frantically I search,

Are flotsam thoughts,
Are the rusting returns
Of briny whelks on the keel

Of a boat, a vessel battered
By strife and winds and surf,
Messageless bottles,

A raucousness of seagulls
Being seagulls,
Conches and shells

In the foams
Of the moment
Seem like conches and shells;

The waves resurface
Their childish driftwood gifts
Offered up at my feet,

How the mind plays tricks
On a desolate beach
To rekindle itself.