Mark Heathcote

As its translucent body rings-out
Under an unheard, jet propulsion…
Question; does it cast shadows?
Does its prey know of an answer?

To this rhythmic, Medusa's calling…
It's death squad of little stings?
Why is it they, avoid shadows.
Contracting in the suns arrows…

Why does a bell without a gong.
Cause such alarm just wearing,
A sarong, swimming, vertically,
Diligently, towards the rising sun…

Why is it they disguise themselves?
As a millpond ripple is it in order
That we shall ignore their riddle?
And, think them an innocent suspect.