Carved images face distant Easter Island,

eroded remnants of unknown events

safe now, one would hope, for eternity here

high above this open boat, loaded,

preparing to leave that anchored ship,

the unravelling swell taking leeside water

peeling back, baring the coast’s rocky hips.
Nobody misses Matthew Quintal

nimble below, defying Christian’s law.

Those in the boat hear snapping & hissing,

a shaft of fire engulfs the stern like a pyre,

glow-worms of minor eruptions bursting,

then the Cornishman, backlit, mind flawed,

clambers down to the sea, his expression rapt.

Radiant heat makes them pull on the oars

feathering clear of the entrance’s white wash,

paler water boiling below the women

who watch now from the Hill of Difficulty

flames & burning ash shooting ever skywards

as seabirds arc around the heatcurrent, crying

& Christian feels a grief tug at his heart,

a strain he could never explain.