Thursday, April 14, 2016


by Ion Corcos

Seaweed scattered,
browns and rots to wrinkled skin;
flesh shed on the high tide.

Sand worn down by the constant thrust,
the ocean surges, rushes to reclaim

prints of paws and long gone feet,
fractured sticks and relics
herded ruthless in a heap.

Colourless shells smashed on rocks,
tangled in stems;

only shells soaked in brine
show signs of life, then fade,
as the sea returns to itself.

Seagulls screech, waste time;
they have time to waste.

They scavenge among remnants,
threads of seagrass, a dead fish,
frail reminders of the deep.


  1. I really enjoy all your poems, Ion, but this one in particular resonates with me. Thank you!

  2. Ion, I love the harshness of the sea in this poem and the hard, but beautiful cycle of life it represents. Congrats!