The Moon Jellyfish
We find them melting
by the shoormal, like dropped
scoops of translucent ice-cream,
the same morning
of the old fisherman’s funeral
at the chapel by our beach.
We’d seen the coffin going past
in a parade as slow as shadows
cast by summer clouds,
into the churchyard where
blind headstones watched us
playing daily with the waves.
The beach is filled with dead things.
Except the jellyfish. We know
they are immortal, so when
storms bring them to the shore
it is the most tragic sight – at least,
that’s what the fisherman said.
We want to save the jellyfish.
They ooze between our fingers
as we wade out to the shallows,
toss each into the softly crooning
waves. Inside some are purple
crescent moons; we think they
are the girls. We do not know
the jellyfish are folklore
a myth we’re offering the tide
to be rejected, for the dead
will continue being dead.
We know only the blank stones,
the deepening afternoon, and jellyfish
returning, dream-like, to shore.
Shoormal: the meeting point of the waves and the shore