Confident of the waters bearing shelled fruit in abundance,
they nailed their scattering of tiny dice-like buildings to the
cheekbone hillsides spilling down towards the shore,
and made their sons and daughters out of smoke, in
one-up, one-down houses separated only by elbow-room,
and alleys that ran with fishguts, piss and piety.
Only to the chapel was the gift of breathing space granted;
a half-acre plot up where the land sloped more forgivingly,
its deeper soil ready to receive their own empty shells.
Robert Ford lives on the east coast of Scotland, and writes poetry, short stories and non-fiction. His poetry has appeared previously in print and online publications in the UK and US, including Clear Poetry, Firewords, Melancholy Hyperbole, Wildflower Muse and Ink Sweat and Tears. More of his work can be found at https://wezzlehead.wordpress.com.