His last resort

surprised by a sea haar rolling inland,
he pricked up his ears for
the call of the foghorn.

sidling through a wicker work of bracken and nettles,
sliding and tripping over slimy rocks,
he crawled towards his refuge:

this stalwart pillar of his yearnings - a light tower.

icy talons sank into his bowed skull, accosted as he
was by a blustering gale - sputum of foam and brine
hissing and roaring from the bottomless crevasses of the ocean.

frozen on a rickety spot, nerves stretches to a strain,
he howled a shriek of despair against the hungry beast.

a mouth bloated with a legion of slithering tongues
gobbled him up; down a torrential maelstrom he went,
spiralling towards the womb of that gargantuan dread.