Isle of Slingers, lands of the King, white tablet
licked by salt, dipping and tilting gently
south in wrinkles of light from the east.
Carved by time from a single stone — no one
between stone and the Crown Court of sea
and sky. Ack-ack. Ack-ack. The gulls
squabble, hold the high air's Leet.
Oolith, oolith, oolith. Basebed, Whitbed, Roach.
Creamy fish roe. Horse's Heads. Pure white
fragments of fine ground shell. Forest fossils
ghosting the stone. Under the kivel she sees
an Angel. Tap tap. Dust on her hands, in her face.
Close your eyes! Quick! There are diamonds
and necromancers glinting in the cracks.