In the untethered moments
before my electronic lifeline
reminds me of my more mundane,
I panic-travel to the beaches
and coastlines of islands
that might not be there much longer.
I dig my toes into the cold, wet
sand, listen to the refrain the wind
whispers to marram grass, and make
a note of this feeling
on the map of collective shame
I etched into my skin in shades
of black and helplessness.
I thread seashells on twine,
interwoven with colour coordinated
pieces of plastic trash.
Ingenious, fragile beauty next
to crude, immature arrogance.
Unfortunate, but history can not
be documented onesided, can it?
I gather sand, and stones that
beg to be thrown at prominent buildings.
But glasshouses, you know.
Bone-weary and my back bent by
the weight of guilt, I have become
a collector of mementoes of our