CSI

A dyke like her who’s been around the block
a bit has heard it all before. Volcano, somewhere
near the Tropics, unexpectedly collapses. Tuffs,
the only witnesses, suspiciously fall in. So,

she’s been doing forensics on her knees,
dusting prints of giant centipedes in seams
of limestone six foot thick. She’s taken
statements from the alibis whose stories

never tally – brachiopods, trilobites,
crinoid stems, coral cups – recorded them
like ripple marks in rock. Then cordoned
off a cove where shifty-looking water

flowed and, sure enough, it blabbed
about the time when sand slid down
the shallow slopes below the old sea cliff.
Soon she had sandstone, siltstone, even

Dolomitic limestone queuing up to give
their versions. She shifted shingle
on the shore for any signs of slickensides
before her final tour de force. Who turned

sticky mudstone into clay? In unison,
they pin the blame on rain. But she’s
got all the evidence she needs
and brings them all to book.