Beneath the onyx arches
of an occult McDonalds,
he watches the ship of wolves
as it runs aground on tarmac
black shores carved from Whitby jet.
Tourists complain about flies
that swarm around burst bin bags
of slaughtered Goths. In cobweb
patterned tights, pale wannabes
wear vinyl as fake leather
fetish: tattoos like scrimshaw.
He remembers standing stones
when they were young and blank faced,
before the Channel breeze scribed
its Ogham lines on ruins
and limned each word with lichen.
A Giant King rules beneath
the hill and wears the Abbey
for His crown. He has no name
and needs none. The moon knows him
and the sun avoids his face.
With each photograph, the view
grows thinner and less is seen.
Ones and zeroes - black and white -
he poses in the background
and gives them unseen bat ears.
