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the coelacanth
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pontefract
"The Coelacanth"
Deep in the dark of an unmapped shelf,
Where pressure is heavy and light is thin,
A rhythm that pulses only to self,
Breathing through ancient forgotten skin.
They told us its meter had turned to stone,
A fossil of ages we left behind,
Drowned in the silt of the old and known,
Scraped from the modern, progressive mind.
But deep in the chest where the currents slow,
A primeval stanza flexes its weight,
Moving steadily in beacon-like glow,
Unchanged by the Century's, mocking date.
It rises up, raw, in a fishing net,
Heavy with scales from a primitive sea
— An ill-recalled shape we couldn’t forget,
Surviving the wreckage of history.
.
