synapse

he thought about the little bay
where they had taken the children on holiday
and where he hadn’t been as happy
as he should have been

and he remembered holidays
with his own father
that brought him up with a jolt
like an electric current

connections occur across a tiny space
a synapse

or the passage of many years

now like a couple in separate rooms
he was out of kilter with himself

sleep couldn’t come too soon

what we did on our holidays

oh take me
by the rolling southern downs
onwards
to a little seaside town

park me
in a guest house with no view
and listen
to me moan about the food

hear me
moaning with the homeless sea
complaining
all night long incessantly

harken
to me moaning as we leave
now you get
your turn to moan at me

waking at Lulworth 1

greedy for solitude I rise
as the screaming cockerel
insinuates break of day
to the weary diver long submerged
cleaving for purchase to the clanging stones
long has he raptured on the ocean bed
in sensual collapse from the fall of eve
retrieving irretrievable matter
between sea demons and sea dreams

watch as he rises towards the cliff
where as a boy he once looked down
at this same cottage in the crumbling cove
and did not know it

[first posted Jun 20, 2013]

Along the Old Sea Wall

The tide was out at midnight,
ropes rattling on the mast,
in the municipal car park
he fell asleep at last,
waking with the tide back in
and jumping in a squall,
as he searched in vain for coffee
along the old sea wall.
He’d gone there out of season,
unlike summers past,
no suitcase, just some luggage
and a crumpled photograph.
The sea was rough by eight o’clock,
no one saw him fall,
as they opened up for coffee
along the old sea wall.

[first posted 25 Nov. 2014]

2223288

The Beachcomber

He blamed the wind
and the salt-sea spray,
he blamed the gulls that wailed all day.

He blamed the rain
and the slate grey sky,
breakers breaking on the black cliff side,

He blamed the wall,
the high sea wall,
and every pebble on the shingle shore.

He blamed the storm,
as he watched it break,
and felt the sleeper within him wake.

Then he blamed no more
the quiet shore,
nor gold washed up from the ocean floor.

Words on a page
for his sorrow and pain,
the beachcomber never does walk in vain.