Mewstone

Great Mewstone

Did the rock
evade the danger
of her twenties,
the way I did,
solidify in quiet,
become set,
rise from an ungodly wave,
legs retracted to
parched yellow shores,
shoulders carved
as lacerated Tors,
fingers commanding,
part bent trees?
Does she read
dried out veins
flooded with rain,
the Gough map,
the echoing of ghosts
who still live in their homes,
collect starfish,
stare out at the bay?
Does she call for Joan
to touch fingers again
instead allow gulls
to bed their claws there?
Does she fear
the tearing of dermis,
stratum
to get to guts of her,
one day
stomped down
by morish folk
in tin boats,
landed on beachside,
holding up shells to the light,
before pocketing
one by one?
Does her heart still weave
shapes in the blinkless night,
womb wide for wild birds,
waiting on a weathering
that'll cause a collapse,
reborn to a undersea giant,
mother to thornbacks,
anglers and fans?