Thea Brennan-Krohn
The ship slips east, swift in the leering still,
and the gulls keep pace with it,
its general squatting on the prow, his eyes slow,
sticking on the leggy oars,
now sticking on the planed planks, and his thoughts fast,
how the strand will be dappled with greaved legs and
Corinthian helmets, infrequent shouts snapping along the water,
gulls stepping over the sea on swollen scraps of ships,
nipping at pieces of men as they float by,
and the bones will end up clean, scattered white along the tide line,
tangled in weeds.
The gulls crane their heads, keeping pace,
snapping as the general throws them bread,
and the shore comes into view, and the rowers shove in their oars,
the ship backs water and stops,
and the gulls, carrying on, are lost in a second.