STARK NIGHTS

Through the low cyan surf
a body horizontal in the wave wall
floating indistinct, disappearing
behind white rushing breakers
pierced by an arm.

Dragged out under frond shadows
skin tattooed, mouth to mouth,
chest compressed, quiet crowd -
this body is neither boy or girl
and its face - dead beautiful.

In these signs, a life -
symbols from cave walls
and scripts ancient, indecipherable -
names of loved ones, dates in Roman numerals
and shoulder blade to shoulder blade
a pretty face of rainbowed pores
and a Latin motto no-one knows
and they kneel in the sand
trying to decipher Sanskrit
these holidaymakers and serving staff
while on the pale horizon lies
nothing but smudged cloud.

At night, under a moon full and bright
through the jungle comes the keeper -
knife silver, tread delicate, naked.
Lock is picked and from cold drawer
to warm, ant-path floor the body goes.
Kneeling, respectful, the skin is removed
in fine slithers: the tattoos, held up to moonlight
are batik glorious. The red mess of flesh
with bulging white staring eyes
feeds insects. The thief has left.

In the grey glint of the afterlife
where a soul walks confused
stands a shadow, lost in cloud,
arms-wide. My child, it says
while below them an endless ocean

of waves green, of backs broken,
churns.