Lines Drawn in the Sand

Your branches rake the sky,

impotent fingers curled in grave-clothes

clutching pipe dreams of the Living Ones.

Your skin has long since

ceased to hold its contents,

draining your life’s blood into the sea

before being spewed onto the sand,

a jinxed Jonah, a shrivelled mummy with no sphinx

to mark your place.

In life,

you hatched egrets and expelled oxygen

and marked the seasons with your foliar calendar.

In death,

here you are,

washed up,

a beached whale

whose art is a shadow,

┬álines drawn in the sand…