Atlantis

 

These stones hold memories

of captive fields and skies

before the land took flight.

 

Their coral eyes wink up,

reminding us that earth,

like time, is borrowed.

 

Ghost hands reach out to where

waves toss and fret; fish flit

aside like startled ghosts;

 

while overhead the spectre

of an ark floats by

in search of certainty.

World's First Joke

 

There was silence when I’d finished.

Imagine, the cave full of smoke

from Boglog Junior’s last attempt

to invent what he had termed ‘fire’.

 

His blackened bones lay strewn about

among the steaming turds and dust

mixed with titbits of mammoth fat,

which smelt exceptionally good.

 

Old Chief Boglog stared into space.

Eyes followed his hand as it tapped

his man-club (an ominous sound).

At last he grunted: “I get it!”

Shipwreck

• 

 

They said, tell us about your island,

whether you miss the palms

and mermaids singing,

rubbish like that.

 

Grant us in sound bites

some saga of shipwreck;

ignored by an ocean,

years sifting time.

 

I was unsung till they came,

armed with notebooks and theories.

Fame is when even the

dead shout your name.

 

Crusoe, they said, you’re back

from the deep;

tell us how wretchedness feels

(as if they don’t know);

 

what is it like to be saved?

I answered that exile

is stranger than fiction.

Rescue is not the promised end.

 

Loss doesn’t fade

when hope is sighted.

For some, there will always be

fresh footprints in the sand.