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.
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