Hours dead. No chance the crabs could eat him. Death
had come by water, as had he. He drowned.
No word or scream. He sank without a sound
but fought in silence to hold one last breath
for one last minute. Then he washed up on the beach
Both shoes on, facing down. His clothes dark wet.
This is the picture we shall not forget.
His body came to land he did not reach.
As image round the world he never saw
A slap to faces that were turned away
And dying thus among us every day.
He is not one, there are a thousand more.
He died that wicked men could win some votes.
May all their lies like brine corrode their throats.