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