Bare Shouldered

We Walk - What Else To Do?

Now that clouds are high, flat, pancake,
splotchy, lenticular, raked, shredded
teased-out by the upper airs,

sun has more say, longer phases,
and Joe is carrying cossie bag, and towel,
Tescos's 10 P plastic swinging to his walk,
bright fruitishness

The glittering river Hun compels me to lean
on my stick and look over the sedge,
the flat, creek-invaded, cattle-fields,
past my mother's and the poplar line,
to the dark square tower of Holme church
above the faded treeline, my father's grave.

As the children eat ice creams
at the round tables at the Centre
behind the pines - where the midges
and soldier flies dance in sunbeams -

a straight backed old man,
togged-out in green gortex,
necklaced by binoculars,
walking stick of holly,

falls sideways flat, down fast,
lying immobile, first quiet and then
high whining, feeble complaining,
waving old hands ineffectually

to his wife and shop staff, stunned
hurting, dignified. "No emergency services!"
But they all thought so. For why

did he fall, uncompromised by stumble
So services are called after all discourse.
And still he has to haul himself up
and sit on the low, enclosure wall,
an icy poultice applied to that temple.

Now we go. It's too cold to swim,
though eating on the beach, just on dry sand
is a boon, and we sunbathe in open coats,
quiet among a smattering of families
dotted around, not one one venturing a toe
in the blue waves, but Dittles dig the sand.

We walk. We saunter. We play word games
under this blue sky, stripey with contrails,
fanned and ribboned and twisted above
a sun-dried, ochre, ribbled and waved,
crust paving; until feet leading us on,
we must stop at the bright blue, navigable
channel, bobbing with orange buoys.

"Let's go in there!" says Joe. Not that
he'd last long in that swooning current.

So we sit dune's edge, picking through
strewage of the tideline, minute sea urchins,
the tiniest of razor shells.

Tramping along the salt-marsh meadow
on mats of lurid algae, mud-squelch,
by Seagate an orb-spinners efforts
across the iron railings is replete,
with midges and soldier-flies.
Plenteous pickings, sufficient for the day

Back at the creek harbour, terns
must be having a turn -
sounding like chimpanzees in the breeze.

And at the pub, "I want to be
inside out," while a thrush,
two octaves above Minnie Ripperton,
holds court in the courtyard
by the pirate ship.

...