Atlantis may be Six Feet Under

Sequins, their shadings, spark Atlantis lost
where morning bloom falters. Out and away
to make carnival on a murderous coast
gulls crisscross distance. Shingle churns the bay,
a cove of pebbles upgraded by rough blowing,
some furious eager pulse as of desire.
Shrubs angled under our sou'wests lean, fraying.
Neighbouring grasslands languish and retire.
The Tasmans cloud then clear. Their snows gleam fine.
Weeks I watched them, heeded scrupulous mouth
of land which speaks us sternly - Atlantine
head, heart, changed, Lord! how your youth
gets summoned, to stand witness though not passive.
What ends begins. Bones, they're not things for play;
Have them go sleep again, a sleep corruptive.
Whitely they burn, dazzling our pilots' day.