Put your ear to those bleached ribs the way
you listen to blushing seashells
those staid supports that formed the
echo chamber for a worn old heart
and perhaps you’ll hear a proper song.

Not the distant splish-splash of the tide
that wavers in and out of a seashell but
the belly-deep groan of a melody built out of
bones as old as that sea
the leviathan’s cry amongst the endless waters
weaving its way home.