LEVIATHAN  Michael J. Shepley

on the

concrete-ish

beach bleached

beige by cold

distant indifferent

sun sat

the bones

of the whale

chaser 2 centuries

dead

the bone tone

desert dry

rib cage

tinted a rosy-er

red in

sun setting

on the

turtle green

turning churn

South Atlantic

sea side shore

the wind

was sharp

cutting knife

edges through

the chinks

in our armor

of parka

snow pants

and iron hard

frozen mittens

and wicked salt

stung the

naked eyes

like bees,

or wasps

rather, because

they never

lose their

burning barbs

impressive

and huge

like a

dinosaur age

carcass stripped

of all flesh

flayed by

years of cool

dry rasping air

so that only

a spine of

wood born

skeleton stayed

glowing slightly like

some Da Vinci polished

white marble

tinted with a

light bloody

blush

some of

our crew

are busy

with their

cyber powered

eye, the 

Foto Cyclops

that tries to

capture the

spirit of

the eternal moment

in a paler

ghost image

of the long

long past

not yet lost

we came 

to the

very bottom

of the earth

for this

sight

words framed in

a northern poetic

affectation

following the

fading footprints of

oil hungry

sailors over

3 thousand

pathless miles

and

as was said

2 centuries

the poor ship

had no say

the whales 

undoubtedly would

prefer things went

a different way

like neither 

the sail ship

not the men

in it

were ever sent

never even did exist

in that sense

the wreck

is a living

animal monument

that resurrects,

maybe just saves,

a distant moment

still kinda

barely breathing

beneath the waves

photo: Alex Dawson, Underwater Photographer of the Year, 2024