Scrittura Magazine
Near Calais Ed Leahy
Again the sea wind shakes the shutter rust, And the loose latches that snatch At the swooping rain of blue-brine wind, Sing with the stuttering waves, White crashing with the gulls, Who cackle among the latches While the wild rain sparks on shutters, That shudder and rust in their dock. The hinges are loose on the homes of men, Loose here, and loose then: gesturing disorder, To the limb drifting legions filing by latches That still shake from war, like the gulls Cackling still more at the infernal flow Of limb drifters in rags by snags of wet bramble That cluster berries and old bombs To sour in the dew. The hinges are loose, and convulsing too, Shaken by the whispers of an old world, And brittle like the bones beneath. I saw the path, tree lined with dew, Was there too with the ragged ghosts, Of listing men; a child in the bramble, Hearing Dad talk bullets and barb, Watching Earth’s axle buckle the path.
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