Friday, 18 November 2011

and we went down in the valley, to pray

and the distant ships come rolling in.   Their masts are bare and their rotten sails litter the decks strewn with ruin.  not a soul come to throw in the bowlines.  Not a soul greets the smiling eyes.  Not a soul catches the last disapearing rays of sun before the darkness runs across the stones to the quay.  Beneath the ships the water ever and after stirs.  the wood creaks and groans and speaks of its own in a tongue thrice forgotten.  The beggar laughs and the crowd looks and he points to the moon, a sliver in the sky, being devoured by a hungry beast.

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