Rising to the surface in a sea
a forgotten worshipper swims to shore
awash with the debris of
and spilt oil
from the gourd of sacrifice
Roused by the calls of water-children,
wakefulness brings a darkening world,
howl of the waking wind,
cowl for the breaking rind.
Two clocks, embalmed, one lives again,
the shadow life of a second hand.
Crucified between them, like Christ
between two thieves, an old trophy.
Only a dull ache remains.
And then the last blackout.