The sea had gone and turned horizon’s corner,
leaving dimpled, damp, quick silver sand.
We followed in its wake, heads bent like mourners,
across the face of newly minted land.
We searched about for deeps and hidden wrecks;
for cycloned luggers, and their salted souls;
the breasted bones of ships, and canted decks;
and the remnants of a divers cache of pearls.
But there was nothing left, no shred, no timber,
so we ran the tide and sifted on the beach,
among the shells for tiny bones of fingers,
the opalescent moon beyond their reach.
Then in the bird track lines, like scrolls, we read
the ghosted names of pearling’s Japanned dead.