On a bleak beach
on the far side of the leaden Atlantic
an ungainly creature –
a huge sinister crow
assembled from canvas and metal struts –
hops, hesitates,
takes a desperate run,
lifts off towards lowering clouds and
plops back onto wet sand;
runs, rises, dips,
rises again to thin cheers, and flies
a short length of
the desolate beach.
Against the swell of the decades
I want to swim that ocean,
heave great boulders
into the obscene creature’s path –
let it crash. Let their dream
founder. Maybe then
there would have been no news
from Halifax today.
whypoetry 