Tuesday, 11 October 2011

Marching

I looked up in drizzle
to see the far hills;
knuckles of a fist inching forward
as I walked

And in the lowing grey
a mourning moon rested 
her hymnbook under 
that famous round chin,

then dropped it to shine
unexpectedly,
like the outbreak of laughter at a wake
or the fast march home from war. 

Monday, 10 October 2011

The Entertainment

Hers was a stuttering demotic voice
All it’s aitches dropped like a stich
For effect, and the tautening of
Conversational canvas, bringing
The audience in like lobster pots
Full of scuttling claws,

His was a declamatory style
Of the old kind, pier end stuff
Bellowing fondly through
Wind rouged cheeks
Netting his catch with a twirl
Familiar from TV in the days
Before phone-ins

And with routines dispatched
Half laughers and kids off
To hunch over flip-penny
And shoot-em up, to take in
The sweet fat of a donut
Or to sit upon the sea wall
Chucking chips at guls

He turns his wiped eyes to hers
Her hand, clairvoyant or just 
Well-rehearsed finds his and tightens
With all the promise of a life
In lights, which may yet appear
Like a rescue mission or plans for
Lottery funded re-generation

They are relics, waiting to be found
And young enough to have no
Property or place, outside the ricking pier
Nothing to stop them coming here
For the faltering applause
And the somehow reluctant sea whose waves
Could hardly choose these shores.