Bible black surrounds, wet walls and puddled floor
hunched with shoulders loaded full toward the seascape door.
Beneath the damp and smokey lanes that spiral through the town,
the bloody aproned Butcher spies the Priest in priestly gown.
The gossips roam the stone lined streets between the ancient dwellings,
to breathe a swarm of whispers embellished with each telling.
But where the tunnel beckons toward the foamy sea,
the pebbled beach in solitude lays waiting just for me.
And I with burdened memories cast my secrets to the waves,
and pray they are forgotten like dead men in their graves.
© Wolfgar 2020