This poem was written on an Atoll in the Maldives on February 23rd 1991, but the ramifications of idealistic destruction are ongoing.
At the merger of white and azure worlds
a rim of bleached and broken shells
the demarcation of land from sea.
No birdsong, only the reef’s surge
in distance muffled, constant roar.
A wheeling mass breaks surface –
not flotsam, but hounded tiny fish.
Five streaks rip the milling mass
each slash centred by a Bluefin Jack.
Fear animates the frenzied fry
driving them from their element
into the air and even onto the beach.
Again and again the Tuna attack
like mad tailors with razor shears
slashing their cloth to ribbons.
Meanwhile, on the northern shore
of this placid cobalt sea others rage
in Freedom’s name: Desert Storm.
No random kill, but structured carnage
unleashed from metal shells
to scream a nation’s will.
The prize burns, the sky chokes,
Death the only demarcation.
