As torn driftwood, salt and sunbleached,
battered and storm beached,
Thrown onto broken coasts by waves
colossal and angry: a political itch.
Running from little to nothing,
stumbling strathed by gulls, across damp sand
surveyed by thin-lipped authority,
wrapped in red tape and labelled.
Far away, harbour-bound big ships bob,
Plotting strategic co-ordinates
Stowing no thought for those
vested interests they launch and cast adrift.
aplaceforpoetry 