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BELOW AND ABOVE THE SEAS SURF FACE

Gone are the fishers pulling Lugs; the Gull its gizzard rusty hooked; 
and barbed, limit its shelled Limpet supply as blown sand creeps;
smart gulls dunk and dip, clean away dry sand grit, clear their voices;
some gulls with salted eyes sing in the briny choir, in the sea salted air.
Cackle is not birdsong ! Choked thirst, on this new digital barren beach.
Crabs below do not sleep, scuttle quickly to pincer cuttle fish inside out.
Lurking above swirls a leaden sky, pressing heavy on a mirage horizon line;
Its distantly trapped! Sunk in long lost rigging, discarded twine tangled nets,
buoyant on the flotsam and jetsam of a weeded bed, stalked by big Congers.
The tide rattled brittle bleached bones, of well anchored nameless smugglers;
who had the timeless tide current wrong, unsaved by oilskin clothed priests.
Breathing smugglers, long shipwrecked in the “ale house” of sin staggering;
his mind baptises their lifeless sinning smiles; many bound drowned.
While plying their trade, in a tirade coined and jewelled, greedy and needy;
there are many hemp baskets, nets twisted around boney blooded fingers, 
torn sails billow caught in brackets, and pulleys, long ropes snake about.
Chains with stains of rust, crush filleted bones eaten by black cats and rats;
old Teachers wander the shore of wave words, they fall over, their own hands.
Long gone are the fishers families; they are food now, for long stretched lugs,
                                      Bubbling below !

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