Porthleven

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I awoke at dawn to the lamenting of the wind

struck against the stone walls.

I listened; an elegy, 

lyricised upon the breeze, breathed mourning

into the waves which teased the stone to rubble. 

The windows shook with force, tensed,

ready for impact. I watched as the sea tore itself

apart, and the harbour lights shuddered in its breath. 

The ashen moon hid in a fragment of night 

while the stars wept and fell to the trenches.

Far along the pier, the church tower refused to fall, 

its body cemented before its people, unwavering

under the undulating pressure. 

A sacrifice.

Then, from by the docks, a shadow 

stooped before the sea. It rooted its feet in the sand

with alien confidence, unchallenged by the hissing spectacle. 

One finger slowly beckoned from the waves. My reflection paled,

raindrops concealing the terror that ought 

to stain the glass window. The colours blurred,

merged into one, the advent of a scream,

as the tide swallowed the figure and spat

it out sideways into its belly. 

Amongst the waves, one hand waved, 

and the arms of the riptide pulled it

under a blanket of funeral silk.