The sharp rocks that edge the shoreline

are jagged teeth.

Wind and water lash this secret coast

and it snarls back

in anger.

The land must hold its defence line always

but the sea can recede and regather force

for yet another assault.

Around the bend is a beach of dead animals

and the homes some once lived in.

There too is the landing point.

The sky is indigo and indignant.

The wind smells of sweet smoke

from the sugar fires.

Tomorrow I will walk inland

find the roots of the hills

where hide the precious few.

The day after tomorrow they will be gone.

There will only be me left

to face the dying sun.

Time wilts and wrinkles under a sun

still potent, even if terminal in time.

Everything has a use by date.

Space has stretched so thinly across

its dark and brooding self

that soon there will be no place left.

Circumstance has embraced the birth of chaos.

Nothing makes sense to me anymore.

“The Birth of Chaos” by John Holland, is, at this time unpublished as he works on a new collection.