BY ISOBEL DIXON
The black shark flag is up.
A twist of sea bamboo,
an ebony whip, stirs
straightens, rises,
tongues the horizon,
the vanishing ship.
Cobra – solitary king
of sand sailing the coast
seeking salt, or Leviathan,
its sinister sea-mate,
a beast of like significance.
Giant bellies, serried teeth,
the many needless limbs –
all as nothing to him.
As are we. Know that
this slippery rope
won’t save a sinking soul.
This narrow monk
spits out no prayers
beneath his shining cowl.
AERODROME 