Member Poem

Lava fields of burnt soil, sparse cover of
stunted grass, brown and sickly.
Rivers of black water make small islands
where gulls gather to curse the Norse gods.

A sun, sodden from wind lashed spray
surrenders behind the stacked grey cloud.
Slowly the sea buckles, collapses on itself,
in a despair etched out on the sand.

The waves are thrown onto the shore
collapsing at the feet of the keening wind,
which flings fist-fulls of rain in temper at low houses.
The rust clad decaying shelters shift on a headland
undermined by the grasp of the withdrawing tide.
Below, crabs dance on the bones of drowned sailors.