This is the age of sea monsters / that inhabit the broiling burnt grey depths

The stretching coastal gust rolls back thin sheets of soil and printed ink and time,
unravel electorate threads criss-crossing the green
while ancient knobbled stumps rise from the dead and claw up the sands
vague forms cling battered to the beleaguered rocky sceptre.

Numb shivering fingers clutch at empty air,
the man standing was forced to kiss the wet ground as
his feet were swept from underneath him.

This is the age of sea monsters
that inhabit the broiling burnt grey depths,
whose flashing three-pronged swell and torrent horror
swallows prancing white stallions in their final heat.
We turn our faces to the incorrigible sky;
dizzied, laughing, unthinking, she swoons and lands upon the earth’s waiting arms
in a turbulent self-perpetuating love affair.

Now is one moment; another caught in a lens – some moreish, indistinct blurry shapes.
Emaciated hollow caves of eyes and cheeks,
silence engulfed the howling voices and
glowing hot embers rain through the dusty, shattered gloam.
Over the incandescent crest of our foe,
past that which attacks the fortress walls and casts arrows upon pale heads
dissent rumbles; the dark masses entangle in brick ruins.
Yet mortal actions never deceive the gods.