About whales

September 6, 2011

 

 

Stranded


Huge rubber torpedoes loose themselves onto shore;

a giant’s speed-humps beached.  Incomprehensible,

these commas in a language no-one knows to speak.

Like sheep they follow each other, but no canny dog

can turn them, head them back to deep supporting sea.

Victims of gravity, bulk weighs them down,

and spread of sand becomes a massy grave.

That short word why grows in watchers’ minds,

pressing like the bodies on that fatal beach.

No answer comes. We water them like giant bulbs,

and strain to plant them back in bed of ocean.

But sometimes there can be just too much coast.

Unseen sirens called them, and some turned back

to dire, heavy death.  Lapped by waves,

gentle as a fading memory, what do whales see

in that final surge, before their spirits swim away?

P.S. Cottier