At Losgar
There is nothing left:
tags of scorched metal, ash
melting with the sand;
we could journey miles
along this beach
and find no thing of use,
no wood to build
or burn,
only the accusation of the long sea,
and the cries that seem to follow,
as if each wind
that ever filled the sails
now rose again –
O, my brother,
pity our father,
who lit the ships
as though they were white candles
placed around his bed
against the dark;
pity him, and fear him,
for he is in our charge
and we in his,
and the fire of his soul
has not been spent
in this.