Day 4

Atlantis

The bells sound in the drowned places,
their tongues wet with weed or the salted tide.
This is a ghost-light, pouring through
the shattered doorways & the chapel's blinded
eyes; fish-skinning the streets & lanes,
the pub & the post office. One fell to the sea,
the other to another country's need, they lie
unheeded until a summer's heat
reveals their fractured bones.

© Ceri Lloyd 4 April 2020