Grant Tarbard

Ode to the Tattered Remains

Not much is left now, just a photograph
that’s circled endlessly like gulls over
scraps, prizing apart seashells and finding
the grave of a little boy, shadow blue,
encased within a sky of salt. Amongst
bruised coloured paper boats are those raw, rough
hands crabbing for loved ones before their faint
tangibles are the real estate of
the sea, along with the osseous ships
of Athenians. I think of that boy,
filled with a bric-a-brac of stories and
all his untapped craft dispatched in that mist.
I think of that boy’s silence and my son’s
vociferous chimes with his blithe comrades.


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