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The inevitable tide
creeps closer
obliterating
his last words:
IT WAS NOT ME
His last words
clawed disfiguratively
in soft sinking sand
on this desolate beach:
deeply disturbing, distressing.
Defiant!
Angry surf rolls relentlessly,
foaming white-flecked wave tops,
deep thundering water.
His body, hurled in a heap:
heaving, breathless, exhausted, pained;
fingers scratching for justice:
“not me, not me”.
A receding brig – away in the distance –
piratical memories:
brawls, scuffles, fights;
enemies still unforgotten;
violence, lashings and masterly greed;
drunken fights in the darkness;
death, bloodied and cheap.
A scapegoat, not missed,
tipped over the stern:
innocent victim, unable to swim
rolls in with the tide:
to survive?
Perhaps there is hope,
perhaps
perhaps
perhaps . . . .
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