The Drowned

Somebody said wrecks
come ashore, looking for the drowned
crews, as if they felt guilt, or love, or loneliness.

Timbers for boats, bones for men.

Their friends shut their minds, their
recollections, themselves
to the dogfish love, the ten inch wide
appetite of crabs.

...The tide washes in. And somebody
sings a song. And his friend, picked clean
to the delicate timber of bones,
drifts in the song, complete
as an archangel.

—

Norman MacCaig (1910-1996)

Norman MacCaig, Collected Poems; Chatto & Windus, London; ISBN 0701137134