Meade Frierson III

The sun inched past the mast; I waited still --
Tanks are finite, not subject to Man's will,
And lungs, too, yet no signal could I feel,
As I watched the idly-spinning wheel.
From their lost waists the cords snaked 'round the creel.

There! the silent bell was tolled; the winch began
To wind them upward to the realm of Man;
It slowed -- the sea would not release its purchase on
The world above; below that placid ersatz-lawn
A root was stuck; I was to tug till dawn.

When at last the first corpse came in view,
It seemed my premonitions had come true.
For there, enshrined in kelp and webs, were two,
A bloated pair, turned all a gravestone's hue
But where the tridents had run them through.