The aloes stand along the shore
and stitch the driftwood of the sea
to a nest of air and broken shells —
a honeycomb of air and bubbles.
The paddock shifts into the sea,
the lip of earth hangs on the air:
the aloe blades flash in the sun
but the stringy roots cry, “Where
is the stone to bind us fast,
to grip and hold us firm
against the wind, the tearing sea,
the night and subtle storm
that gnaws the earth along its nerve
and only leaves its caves of air?”
The aloes stand along the shore
and stitch the driftwood to the tides
and grope for the fallen binding stone
and cry, “Why is this storm, why harm?”
But sea and wind along the shore
seem to moan, “Reclaim, reclaim.”
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