The sharp rocks that edge the shoreline
are jagged teeth.
Wind and water lash this secret coast
and it snarls back
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“The Birth of Chaos” by John Holland, is, at this time unpublished as he works on a new collection.