At the tide line amongst the jumbled bladder-wrack and shells, the rotting carcass of a timber boat lies upturned upon the sand. Forsaken by fishermen, no future now. Cracks where once the oiled decks shone, ribs exposed, iron rivets rusting, a hole punched in its side. Coarse calls coruscate, greedy gulls trailing fish guts strut the ramparts of their keep.
The reek of rotting carcasses clots the air. You promised a future, fisher of men. Wracked upon a timber cross with arms outspread, iron nails through hands and feet, forsaken, you hang. From beneath exposed ribs, a hole punched in your side oozes wine-dark blood. Coarse calls oscillate as legionaries patrol the ramparts of their killing ground.
At the tide line wine-dark blood and bloated, rotting carcasses are long gone. Amongst the bleached and jumbled ribs of boats and fish and gulls and men, the bladder-wrack and shells tumble with the future in the sand sucked under by the surge and swell. No coarse calls echo along the shore, the ramparts are silent, exposed, inundated.