Empty cadences of sea-water licking its own wounds,
sulking along the mouths of the delta, boiling upon those
deserted beachesempty, forever empty under the gulls;
white scribble on the grey, munched by clouds. If there are
ever sails here they die before the land shadows them.
Wreckage washed up on the pediments of islands, the last
crust, eroded by the weather, stuck in the blue maw of
from Justine by Lawrence Durrell