Blown from busy parks he’s come -
sheathed in crumpled rags – in skin
seasoned by the salt and sun -
Come to sit,
mincing bread in those calloused hands,
to cast the crumbs
to a congregation of silver gulls
which parasitic and competitive
move in a constant emotional state
about his feet.
All is gone,
the faces, friends,
the long years,
out on the deep, on the dark sea
they dance in the fading evening light.
As the sun turns and the stars spin
he’s come to sit
in the roaring emptiness of space
face to face
with all that was,
with what will be,
with his bottle-full of memories
to drink the darkness,
to drink it down and deep.