Twelve in
silence stand
eight under
the sun
four in
shadow.
Resolute,
they look to the sea
no matter
the time of day
the season
at hand
the lunar
or solar cycle
the stars
that spin above.
Twelves sentinels
to guard
eight under
the sun
four in
shadow.
Sand,
stone, ragged grass and steadfast
silence
within the relentless boom
defend the
indefensible
against
salt, wind and ocean.
They meet
the sea,
whose waves
crash like wild Picts
against
Hadrian’s wall, foam tossed high
to sparkle
before the fall, soundless
even as
they grow incomplete.
Twelve
apostles silent all day,
eight under
the sun
four in
shadow.
when I was
a boy I stood upon one,
the arch to
cross still existed then
and, in the
wild wind and sea spray battle,
grasped
that the world would always be
greater
than reality.
Now sixty
and only eight remain,
four have
surrendered grain by grain
into the
great journey of sea and sand
to find
themselves never whole again
but
particles of a new land
in a
distant horizon
unnamed
until mangroves seal the fragments into soil.
In memory
twelve remain, silent, frozen
in a time
before language and dance
when the
world, lately formed,
hung itself
out to dry
like the wings
of a newly birthed dragonfly.
They guard
still, the twelve;
eight under
the sun
four in shadow.
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