Death line

Sabine’s gulls,
A brace,
Dead on a beach;
Each washed-up
Mangled corpse
Entangled in the cold
Implacable embrace
Of some new-fangled
Angling gear.
Salt eyes trace
Across the sand
The telltale strand
Of fishing line,
Stretching, extra-fine,
From one ex-xeme
To another,
Brother to dead brother.
Out at sea,
Year after year,
The strangled cry.

© Tim Knight and timknightwriter, 2014.