by Keith Inman
Were you full of sarcasm, JT
a red a white buoy
snarled in stormy flotsam
net-washed on a beach
in coal-fired morning.
England, then, had everything
for what Beijing would become.
‘Erebus the whaler’ harpooning
the wealth of the world for jolly old
Britain. ‘Another fish,’ me hearties.
Feathered wolf-dogs gull
their way to the white winged whale-fin
flagging the crowd on the wharf,
‘Naought else to do, Gov.’
but surrender to wooden sharks.
Are these your sea monsters, JT
beyond a smashed cross,
timbers on a rocky, empiric shore,
sails in the fog.