Skinned Alive

There is no sky
Except for the sun, which is biting my face
And licking my eyes with poisonous tongue

There is water
But it is quiet
And still,
Slicing our senses with reflection

In my anorak I'm a baby
Crunching on a rusk with each deliberate step.
This is a tundra
But the snow is tanned
And spattered with shells like freckles.

Two men, in waterproofs and knitted hats
Dig holes which never empty
To extract lugworms
And skin them as they wriggle

The harbour wall is a ruin
Echoing with a heavy silence.
A wooden shed: a Siberian outpost
With edges as sharp as the horizon
Keeping its warmth a secret

We lay like mummies in the sand
Embalmed in the heat of our bodies,
Unwrapped by reverential hands
To feel the wicked day.