Bone poised on a stone scarp tilted like an accusation
to the sky,
he sees first the seismic cracks, then Europe drift away.
Slowly he lifts a wing to peck and pull at a single feather,
holds it there
then watches it drop spinning down into the chosen abyss.
Across the layers of sod and turf and millstone grit,
lambent ghosts drift,
eyeless, tongue-torn, groaning in languages unknown.
He has been here before. He has heard the screams,
seen black sails
drift beyond the burning sunset. Flesh scents on the wind.
(Written 24/06/16 for 3:AM Magazine.)