That kind of day,
the end of Aussie
winter, poor Poms'
good summer play.
Not a beige in sight;
the azure, the indigo,
the Prussian, the orange,
the gold and the silver,
the Cappuccino and
the Mocha foam, the
creme de la creme.
In the lagoon, breaching
a channel to the tide,
young paddling families,
become The Glitterati -
cheap cameras cannot
justice.
Bedazzled.
The sea's beseech -
susurrus of pillow speech -
over 90 miles of beach,
falls and recalls,
booms and retunes
lisps and recrisps
offering the evidence,
adducing to seduce:
'Take then this thin
rooty staff, Djinn.'
O, swallow, swallow,
these dune moths,
these winged ants
cannot suffice
your predatory aero-
-batic delight.
And we sit, mask-less,
cool in dune shadow,
imbibing a thermos -
coffee as we like it.
.....................
This, below, in the Eighties.
Shangri-La
The ebb-tide beach is a high hill ridge
whose marbled. gleaming summit is the sea:
far below in some midland inland town
is my tunnelling and pittance-hungry ghost.
War-jets are sole reminders of that camouflaged tangle;
they play at shaking unheard prayer-wheels of sea-sound,
juddering unseen courtyards of quiet, bleached things
with their crass, indifferent, dying snarls.
A winding procession of sun-dishevelled beings,
their bowed heads reverent and intent
on the treasures of the channelled way,
picks its delighted path to that mythic city
whose tambours and chants sea-horn
and celebrate the eternal selfhood of rippled blue.
YOU ARE READING
Bridging
PoetryPoetry. Each new poem with the bonus of a much older poem from relative youth, bridging time, in a way.
