MORT D’ WHALE

The tail-fin’s enormous
“thwack” foaming
the ocean
surface:
echoed cries
that circled
half the
globe.

Oars falling
and
rising –
O the call
for
krill.

The waiting harbour
empty, its hinting water
a black
jewel –
the shop-keepers
wash their
display glass
and slap
their
floors.

Chilled to
the bone
the hunters
ply
their toys
on the vast
wet
universe,
its
meaning
allowed to
stray
no further
than an outstretched
hand.

Tom Pearson