Terra Infirma

A black congealed sea

flows hard past my island, 55,

a mere number in the suburban ocean,

and on it solitary ships bob 

and weave their way to some unknown commercial congress

their voices colourful flags of different origins.

I till the liquid soil of my island lovingly

until it relents

non-descript flowers, stunted trees, and small hard shrubs

which i subjugate and organise into tribal beds according to sort.

This is order and it is good. 

This is order and it is sanity.

This is order and it is mine.

But when the black wind blows from the SouthEast 

I become a mere beach bum collecting 

detritus

flotsam

jetsum 

random pieces of discarded packaging

thrown overboard carelessly.

I rail and rant silently,

with a twisted smile,

like some mad Lear;

But while I still have my tools around me like protective knights

I dash around my island kingdom pretending I am still its ruler.