In The Wake (Poetry)

My albatross — by some miracle — has gone —
its heavy stench a task
transmogrified — once imagined light —
then rotting as each feather
found its death — grown too weary
for the long-haul flight
plunged dark into the foam.

Unweighted now — the neck
from which it hung
can mourn a little — sigh
in the small wake
where sobbing air and water mingle —
colour life the same
for pity’s sake.

All symbols are dissolved —
the pen — the frail bird skull —
the wanderer alone above the surf
who reads the lines —
the shapes — unravels strands
circles time — undoes
an aching ocean’s worth
of old beliefs.