Migrants’ Shadows
Their shadows ride
on utopian tides,
following every sunset.
Go west, go west, there’s
no rest in gnawing cold.
Dragged through grass,
through mud and hill,
the weak, the mad, the ill.
They ride the waves, SOS,
god save our souls. Those
sinking feathers, plumage
clouds, shadows in the sea.
Written for Miz Quickly’s Day 26 Image screen-grab of today’s newspaper. 27 migrants die in over-loaded dingy when it deflated in the English Channel. ©Misky 2021 Shared with #apoemaday on Twitter
It's Still Life 
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