They are packed in, a sardine tin,
salt caked, stacked, domino effect,
too close for bodies, just the head
stones, neither bones nor flesh interred.
No coffers, lead, or rotting, would-
be leatherjacket larvae food,
but Verdigris, copperplate script,
brief only lines engraved to see.
So hearts of oak float, bloated, lost,
the cost of mariners, impressed,
from gangplank or the fishing nets,
who trawled, then lay them down to bed.
Gifts for the poor, their slates wiped green,
now buried treasure out at sea,
beyond the bar, strand, golden sand,
the riches of the wealthy drowned.
Comments