One Hundred Souls

Across the blue. A trembling approximation, searching

The image, blown off

The motor, roaring

The waves, roaring, underneath, inaudible.

Barrenness erupts from the blue.

Across the green. A panning approximation

The image, searching

Searching for its place, amongst 

Dancers

Singers

A fireman making fire.

Petrol on wood, neither of which actually exist here.

The wind scatters every sprouting tree

eats into the bodies

piles up the waves.

The wind shreds the words

carries away the sparks

carries away the memories of the dead.

They burn holes into the night.