Beyond the beyond,
framed in the
broken window,
heavy with cloud
the sea tolls its
melancholy
being neither
sleeping in calm
or rampant with
aggressive storm.
This is a grey
day, vibrant sunlight
warming only the
backs of clustered cloud.
Bram Stoker sauntered
here,
bringing his ship
of nightmare
into the harbour
in the howl of night.
Today there are
no shadows
walking across
the grasses
or playing hide
and seek
in the crumbled
masonry;
the peaks and
troughs of light
are homogenised,
insipid,
as if
the sun
has writer’s
block
or maybe, drained of passion,
or maybe, drained of passion,
it is undead.
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