Too Late
He dances on the sand and waves,
white shirt in hand. 'The gold!'
He cries 'I've found the gold,
and ruby stones of deepest dye.'
Heedless, the cross-masts sink from sight.
Salt waters lap the arid shore.
Trickling tears now wet his cheeks,
for now he knows the reason why
white bones bestrew the golden strand
and vultures squat so patiently
upon yon head of bald-bare rock,
Copyright © Julian Scutts | Year Posted 2019
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