By painted fishing boats almost submerged
And broken nets. This is the island’s verge
Where thought is silenced by the ocean’s roar,
The fish are thin and skinny, mostly scales,
The scrounging gulls are made of shingle, salt;
Around a driftwood fire we still exalt,
Although our skin is rough with scars and wales,
We still exalt like creatures of the deep
From underwater caves, there in the gloom
They cling to life where ought to be a tomb.
At night beneath a bloody moon we sleep,
Both wrapped in grubby blankets, damp debris,
Like paper lanterns floating out to sea.