Santa Claws

On the shoreline of our great ocean,
Lie detritus among slick sea weed,
Who find homely warmth in underpassed,
Candescent lights. Comfort on ecclesial mosaics,
And harbour in docks under prickly icons.

Spewed out by market tides and rips of currencies
Sloshing. Branded in God we trust, dragged and flayed,
Deflated bands lie limp, waiting for inflation’s interest
To fashion hedges and floats to travel offshore
Beyond the southern seas and Leviathan’s tongue.

Whisper quietly this Christmas, not life digitally remastered but
Death. In comfort or cross, death will have her final way.
I only hope beyond these shores lies one to calm a seething sea
Fit for sleep and eating charcoal fish. And pray for one to unhook me
From Santa’s grasping claws.