Musings on the winsome sea I used to visit like christopher robin: when I was very young. |
Soft sea grass wafts like fine gypsy hair, As the sand is picked up and cast like runes, And the gulls squeal, circling in the air, As we tumble down from the silver dunes Towards the opalescent sea. White sands are turned summer scented blue In the sea light’s soft, sweet, glittering Glow. A mosaic of broken, glassy hues. Iridescent light, alive, skittering, Within the bright, bewildered sea. We strike a match that flares up black-red, Exotic against the beaches pallor, Illuminating eyes, shadowing heads; Whilst the skull moon: bone white and sallow Is mirrored in the lonesome sea. Burning the shade of a boiling soup, Red coals in the yellow sand, we sit still And whisper within our motley group Like wimpling waves, our words rise up to fill Us with our old, nostalgic sea. Salty hair like weed and sandy toes, Calloused hands and flit-fluttering sails That flap like ghosts then fill and billow And in the wind that twists and wails Stormed out with us across the sea. Seemingly endless days of sweet sun, With waves of eton blue, that almost green Of the English coast. Those days are done But we sit in the firelight’s amber sheen Still in love with our winsome sea. |