Friday, July 12, 2019

They are closing the piers...

They are closing the piers
pulling up stumps
clocking off
giving up

They are shutting down the pubs
calling permanent time
kicking us out
giving up

They are turning off the waves
switching off the sun
melting the stars
giving up

Saturday, June 14, 2014

Dover Beach

The sea is calm tonight,
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! You hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back and fling
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long withdrawing roar,
Retreating to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
Matthew Arnold 1867

Monday, May 26, 2014

Driftwood sketches (hand on heart)

Day dream
night scene
sun blinds
dawn tide
faded light
sand in shoes
it’s old news

Coffee break
body shakes
cut grass
needn’t ask
black jam
long man
it’s all good

From Beachy Head
to sofa bed
Long Reef
to good grief
the aftershocks
the lock stock
a red hand
sun tanned

Hawley sings
a child swings
Orion’s belt
the sky melts
spread light
like marmite
if it’s Earl Grey
it’s Tuesday

The lakes edge
sleepy head
red wine
not this time
a butterfly
flits by
a dolphin glides
the ocean wide

Painted beach
cold feet
golden mile
warm smile
hot shower
stolen hours
a sea mist

the last kiss

Sunday, May 25, 2014

Cornish Cliffs

Those moments, tasted once and never done,
Of long surf breaking in the mid-day sun.
A far-off blow-hole booming like a gun-

The seagulls plane and circle out of sight
Below this thirsty, thrift-encrusted height,
The veined sea-campion buds burst into white

And gorse turns tawny orange, seen beside
Pale drifts of primroses cascading wide
To where the slate falls sheer into the tide.

More than in gardened Surrey, nature spills
A wealth of heather, kidney-vetch and squills
Over these long-defended Cornish hills.

A gun-emplacement of the latest war
Looks older than the hill fort built before
Saxon or Norman headed for the shore.

And in the shadowless, unclouded glare
Deep blue above us fades to whiteness where
A misty sea-line meets the wash of air.

Nut-smell of gorse and honey-smell of ling
Waft out to sea the freshness of the spring
On sunny shallows, green and whispering.

The wideness which the lark-song gives the sky
Shrinks at the clang of sea-birds sailing by
Whose notes are tuned to days when seas are high.

From today's calm, the lane's enclosing green
Leads inland to a usual Cornish scene-
Slate cottages with sycamore between,

Small fields and tellymasts and wires and poles
With, as the everlasting ocean rolls,
Two chapels built for half a hundred souls. 

John Betjeman

Friday, May 16, 2014

She paints the sea red

The moon paints her lips red, opens the door and shines. Her jewels glisten on the curves of the water as her hips dance to rhythm of nature.