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Viewpoints The Drowned - by Helen Moore
Viewpoints The Drowned - by Helen Moore | The Drowned - by Helen Moore |
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They wander on the sands there now, by night, when the mourning moon is dark, when chilling mists lie like shrouds, and unhappy dogs start to bark. This strand they graze like pastures, numb feet quiet, without stealth, backs bent by the cruel night, for a harvest that brings no wealth. Yet heedless of all danger signs, as folk in ghostly Morecambe sleep, grey sacks forever filling, with cockles from the deep. So far they browse on out there, more than two miles from the shore, with no local guide to steer them, to where turning tides start to roar. For triumphantly the sea returns, galloping back, gaining on them ground, tossing foamy manes on ice-cold flanks, drowning them with its sound. Yet heedless of all danger signs, as folk in ghostly Morecambe sleep, grey sacks forever filling, with cockles from the deep. Wind whips across pale Chinese faces, round raucous gulls ravening for food, whilst safe indoors, the gangsters snore, their cockle-slaves left marooned in vain cry out to them, their masters, and prayers to Buddha them to save, breaking hearts for far kith and kin, as sinking sands prepare their grave. Yet heedless of all danger signs, as folk in ghostly Morecambe sleep, grey sacks forever filling, with cockles from the deep. And so if you chance to walk there - by night, when the mourning moon is dark, when chilling mists lie like shrouds, and unhappy dogs start to bark - open your ears to the voice of the sea, and hear those spirits you might, for a foreign tongue their’s may be, but sisters, brothers, global’s their plight. R.I.P. |
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