Queueing On The Cliff (Poetry)

The line is neat across the well-worn green
almost straight — the patient queuers stand
while from the sea the salted breeze blows keen
and tugs at numbered tickets in each hand.

The pace is slow — the process timed to fit
six souls an hour scheduled dawn ’til dusk
each quietly waits their turn — none rush at it
but execute with little show of fuss.

Some hover briefly — linger on the brink —
a small dark dot against a wash of blue —
and in that instant maybe pause to think
look back on life — the short straw that they drew...

Others smooth as arrows slice the air
focused true they vanish out of sight
eager to be gone and free from care
they shed their skins and dive into the night.

Towards the edge they shuffle in a dream
this final act in sunshine or in rain
while playing out each death-embracing scene
to no applause. The sea absorbs all pain.