Monday, 21 September 2009

Seafood

Out in the bare bones of picked bare, he clamps the mussels with ruthless claw on the ribcage of the burnt out pier, drags them from their bright seaweed bed. He gorges in the double dare world of mirror sand, flinches as stranded ribbons of weed breeze in behind the shield of his shoulder and warp beneath him in the inky fluid of shadows that ebb and flow, erratic. 

Weapon split. Spat out. Blue shards fall into the shallows. Broken jewels. The wind bites in at his wing, drags the feathers into odd shapes, spiked like a warning. Sharing is not an option.

Crow.