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Every sea-born whale is born to drown,
Save those lost few who crush their final breath
On shore, amid the gawkers come from town
To grieve, perhaps, that helpless creature’s death.
And deep below, invertebrates abound
In silent darkness on the ocean floor
To slowly moulder those already drowned,
And silently await the fall of more.
I wonder if they know, he stops to think,
And leans across the bulwark to regret
The death of whales. He finishes his drink
On deck. The deep grants one last cigarette.
So great a creature barely makes a splash.
Thus overboard he flicks away an ash.