Battles.
With its mysterious
amber-toned nodular face,
the fronded sight of a washed-up
dying ribbon of weedy
sea- kelp tugged from the deep
of this great Atlantic
affects and sets my pen to paper.
Shaped like a spiral
of tactile curves with open
prehistory-lipped lizard-look
spread groundward
its salty green dragon mouth juts
forward in torn-jawed
grief toward dying moments.
Tell me what violent
past ejected your submarine
life from forests of frills, what storm
dislodged your roots,
wrenched you floating skyward
and tossing your pride
threw you drying onto this beach ?
Your prehensile shape
will never release the secret
to me but I think I see battles in dimly
lit worlds where bellowing
fights of wild undulation like quakes
severed your bed-grasp
ending resistance by breaker action.
You kelp, anchored fast
in watery weedland grew mightily
tough and strong.
I will carry you back
now to saline tide-smells
and leave you where you belong.