POINTS ON THE GRID
George Bowering
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SOLILOQUY ON THE ROCKS
The black shell harvest
of low tide
clusters in a dry afternoon death.
Streaks of green and white
and harbour smell
that fondle with the waves
the shell-sprouting rocks,
groan at last in retreat to the sea,
and we are left,
crackling, crunching guilt with every step.
Can it be, as the dipping
and soaring gulls shriek,
that these clinging disbelievers,
these empty, blackened and sun-sick
reminders of wafting livelihood,
are seaweed-shawled in effigy
of our own waterfowl existence?
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