The Spill

The Spill
by jamh

You welcome the sight
of a beautiful day.
Bright and clear,
no clouds or waves
over or under the ship.

Nothing but blue
in the morning heat.
There might be, far off,
a thin yellow line
of a sandy or cracked lip.

There might be a reason
for your taking to the sea,
a waiting child, not yours,
but waiting nevertheless.
You might be of help.


Or it might smell of oil.
of flesh, of pelicans dying,
blackened head to tail
eyes drooping in despair
drifting like sandals and kelp.

You might see blades
and gunfire over your head.
Ropes falling, black smoke,
in contrast to the soft blue,
ominously expanding.

A herald of the column
of a man-made hurricane.
A promise of glue-like rain
heavy, sinful, and suffocating.
Both worlds exist.




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