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Portuguese Man o' War
Sunrise and already the water
is being seared with a glow
as if under a grill.
You can feel the heat building
in the morning air, the sand
still warm from yesterday.
The tide has left the creature
stranded on the beach,
its frilled sail glistening
and rigged with blue tentacles
clumped menacingly beside
its motionless body.
The sun will soon cook it
to a dried out bladder.
This drifting marvel of murder
is now no more than sea phlegm
coughed up on the crest
of a wave. It looks so pitiful.
And yet it still
has the power to inflict
a painful sting. Venom
waits for one last desperate
chance to snare some poor
careless prey.
My fingers seem possessed
with a will to pick it up
to see how it feels without
being stung. I hover somewhere
between head and hand,
stranded by indecision.
Footnote
This is one of a series of poems
that have the shoreline as the
backdrop for the exploration
of meaning in things washed up
on the beach or in the experience
of being in the moment.
Paul
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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