ODE TO THE MONIFIETH WHALE
From somewhere off the northern coast of Norway where
The sea is deep enough for giant squid, his favourite fare,
He, a thirty five foot adolescent male, thrashed south
Towards the breeding grounds off Africa, his scented spout
Marking his direction. His satnav should have directed him
To make a right- turn west, say between Shetland and the dim
Silhouette of Orkney, to gain the depths of the Atlantic;
But he continued into the shallow North Sea. Now frantic
For food, and sensing his true direction, he bore west when
He saw a gap in the Scottish coast, and found himself penned
In the Firth of Tay. Exhausted, foodless, and without a map
He did not trust the water but made a lumbering last lap
East and beached himself near Barry Buddon, where he died.
Videos show the array of industrial machinery that plied
The sands to bury him, underestimating perhaps the pull
Of winds and tides.Now notices warn you and the full
Guff of his remains drives dogs daft and offends genteel
Nostrils, but it is a smell of energy, firstly of the gross meal
Made of him by thousands of tiny creatures, but more
Of the huge flesh now exanimate: the world’s largest
Brain, four stomachs, spermaceti, ambergris, the zest
That powered his half-mile dives into the briny ooze
Of the ocean bed. The stink of death here brings me news
Of life, its process terrible, its scaled invention never shoddy.
I’d like to see the resurrection of this body.