by JP Davies
The sea loathes the iron men, seeking to rust his replicas sunken in shore, marking his years. The steadfast men a breakwater, each age a serial-number branded at the nape. One howls mutely in its iron cradle. Horizon blinds Eighty, a death-mask rehearsal. Two tries to run, its head too heavy. For his Fortieth edition he cocked a finger and thumb pistol, melded the iron gun to his temple. Now Forty lies in the lolling dunes, gaping at the bird-strewn sky, crab emerging from its hollow skull. Beyond his formative years, the beach stretches statueless; untainted sand doubts his existence. Water rises to the hips, sea blisters wrought skin; breath trapped in the iron ribs. Bones dissipate, rust creeps, until even the tallest he ever was disappears beneath the iron sea. Published in 'Crossings Over' (University of Chester)