Otter Ferry

Never forget we stumbled
up the drunk stone beach, bellies full
of oysters, bread; across the crumbled
concrete bunker's hill

and like two exiled kings
from that high point surveyed
a combed acre of seaweed, stinking
in the dusk; all its betrayed

haul of half-open tins adrift
on the rippled surface, clusters
of midges and sandflies' thrift
busily uncovering the lustre

of waste; how we said
nothing of what we needed to say,
which would rise as the dead's
final airs, ineluctably,

but both palmed a rock
and aimed it at a rusted pipe;
lobbed; fell short; took stock,
and sourced another hope

from what lay at our feet
to try again; how each sad tone
we raised then sounded sweet,
and no shot was in vain.

© Frances Leviston
First published in Tower Poets, 2005