5
I stand upon the farthest reaches
of Elsinore's desolate beaches
where it's all made of cliff faces,
steep falls and empty spaces.
My skin looks like it's sheer-
it's so very cold this year,
and I can see a map of veins,
bruises like plum juice stains.
The ebbing tide, the ticking clock
the water eroding piercing rock.
I am loathe to feel at home in Elsinore
There's an ancient echo I cannot ignore.
That's why I go far out on the shore.
To try and hear what is called out for.
But as I stand with my shoes in the sea
I realise the echoes call only for me.