Howard Firkin
the gulls cry, puling, mewing in the morning
      church bells
the grey stone walls against a grey stone sky
on both a lichen growth

the sun a drop pearl pendant: stare at it
      her chest
her milky skin cloud soft, it freezes me,
sea cold, sea bitter cold

your steps are messageless, an empty morse
      remorse
and nothing to get crucified about
another saltire path