The perimeter was limiting,
the interior more inhibiting
and the Islander lived alone,ambitions dissipated,sun dried,dessicated,he waited for the ship to come,
he lived on coconuts and rum and Wrigleys spearmint chewing gum and two tonne of cargo from the hull of the ship that nearly pulled him to his death.

He was blinded by the sun and sand,so carried lightly in one hand a parasol (made in Taiwan)
not one known to complain,he found it hard to explain to his companion,
a turtle he’d named Marion,in honour of his life and his poor departed wife
just how he felt,
but he knelt before the sea creature,which, though he didn’t know it then
would feature in a hot cooked stew somewhere in the distant future.

Sad to tell that the Islander spent eighteen years on his Island hell and went quite insane
thought the sand was rain and bathed in it twice weekly
leaking fluids from his skull he swam out to the rotting hull and danced a jig on the ancient deck,
both man and wreck sank deep below where only sharks and shellfish go and the sea sucked both to their sad demise.

No stone marks the resting place,no words remark on who lies there,but the Island stares out to the sea and knows the turtle was eaten for tea
and Islands never forget.
copyright © John Smallshaw all rights reserved

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