Something willed me to go - and everybody else

[or so it would seem],

 

all the folk of the village,

as if a common thought had invaded – pillaged -

our thoughts and will and preoccupations,

​

and took us down to the beach.

​

The wind was up, and the sand blew in your face,

and I squinted through it to take in the place,

and the Time, and the Moment in which I

– we – found ourselves,

​

where we had brought ourselves,

 

where we’d been led,

ushered there by a tug in the head.

 

And this is when I saw why we’d come to the beach.

​

​

​

Huge, thick, out-of-this-world:

a whale that had sailed straight out of the sea –

whether fallen or pushed or broken free,

​

up onto the rocks.

 

Stiff as a tree.

 

A glistening wreck, shined smooth silk black,

and I remember thinking, when I think back:

the size of its bones! That alone, it must be vast.

And the lungs in this beast! Hot air balloons, at the very least.

Two shipping containers of muscle and meat,

losing purpose as they lost shape.

 

Such a sight.

 

‘Such a shame,’

 

a woman next to me said. And there’d been gulls circling overhead,

but occasionally now they’d land and pick at the spread served up

by misfortune and circumstance.

Each would be well fed –

oh yes, so fat in fact [whilst we’re musing on that]

that they might never fly again.

​

And I hated them –

​

wanted to hurl stones at them -

 

in that Place,

​

Time,

 

Moment,

 

I hated the so-called ‘circle of Life’:

a nasty shape that hurts like a knife,

striking hard into structure, unforgiving to routine,

a stupid design with a distinct streak of mean.

A menace. A mischief. A misjustice on Man.

 

And Beast.

​

And…

​

Whatever.

​

 

​

But it happens - has to - or the world would get too full.

Too sullied with the weight of the weights that it makes.

That mass-produced mass building too fast,

falling in on itself [like the ribcage of this whale] then:

collapse.

​

The world, it couldn’t turn, so I guess, now and then,

you have to burn your own crops –  so to speak –

​

it’s hard to articulate

​

[comprehend]

 

[[justify]]

​

but basically,

 

wheedle the strong out from amongst the weak,

 

or the other way round. However the pyramid tilts,

from day to day. Week to week, whichever way.

​

From eon to eon, without change: Time passes, and the Living pay.

 

 

 

But the whale brought us there, on that day down on the beach,

to see its last moments, so that we could each, y’know

 

take stock, and

 

reflect, and

​

maybe even see

​

how fleeting and fragile our lives can be.

 

 

How lucky are those not yet resting on a sandy bed,  

still with breath in their lungs and gulls just overhead.

​

​

Inspired by a dream, and a feeling that's always in the back of my head.