Dead Whale on the Beach
By John Grey
It’s the smallest patch of sand I know,
barely big enough to be a coffin.
And yet that’s where the sperm whale
has buried itself,
belly rotted, ribs crushed,
fluke flopped on sand.
The waves can’t move it,
despite their persistence.
Curiosity brings gulls and sandpipers
before the very size of death drives them away.
A few masked humans arrive,
as hot sun parlays stench into the unbreathable.
But a giant cannot be disposed of.
It can only be diminished.
John Grey
4/27/21
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review and Connecticut River Review. Latest book, “Leaves On Pages” is available through Amazon.
