Battles.
With its mysterious
amber-toned nodular face
the fronded sight of a washed-up
verdigris rope of kelp
tugged by the merciless heaves
of a treacherous ocean
attracts my setting pen to paper.
Shaped like a spiral
of tactile curvature with open
lipped lizard-look
flesh of prehistoric-ridged
salty green knots its mouth juts
forward in jaw-torn
cuts toward last living moments.
Tell me what violent
power ejected your submarine
life from forests of frills, what storm
dislodged your clasp,
wrenched you to billow skyward
and tossing your skin
threw you dying onto the sand ?
Your prehensile torso
will never its secret now tell
but I think I see battles in dimly lit
bed where liquid bellowing
of wild undulation likely severed
your quaking foothold
ending resistance by breaker force.
You, wet kelp anchored fast
in watery weedland grew mightily
healthy once before
so I now throw you back to saline
wave-reaction and
leave you where you belong.