Who scans horizon, land-lie, smells the danger,
Has seen it twice before and has lamented.
Already consigned to the paths of purgatory,
Sign says ‘all for hell’ must now depart.
The man made paddles searching for the tide.
A plastic inch; a rictus, killing smile.
The crime of waste lies waiting down the line.
The minute hand can never be undone
Just heads and tails in every pitch and toss.
Giving, taking, soul mates of the hand
That knows not what is stroke or what is terror.
The promise in the handle of a knife
Conspiracy has no fathers, only mothers.