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Everything in this world
is a debt to someone
or something. We feel
them calculating interest
as we sleep, dreaming
uneasily of the time
we will have to pay
and find there is nothing
in our pockets.
And as we lay in our beds,
wind pounds its knuckles
on windows and doors,
the sea prepares its fists
and stars sharpen
their swords. Somewhere,
a god is waiting for the cash,
ready to give its orders.
The bones of our descendants
roll in the bowels of the earth,
weeping for their children.
Walking down the street,
I empty my pockets
of the sea I was looking
after for you. Mussels
come tumbling first,
cracking open their castanet
shells on the pavement.
Acres of seaweed and oysters.
Taking a deep breath,
I pour an ocean into the middle
of the road. Islands of people
and cars bob in the newly created sea.
Somewhere amongst this
is an old trawler. You are inside,
sending signals back to a lighthouse
forgotten in a trouser pocket.
Christian Ward is currently studying English & Creative Writing at Chichester University, England. He enjoys writing, reading and films.