Evening station:
two bucket seats, glasses
on a handy sill.

The bristly sea
half-fills the big basin
of the headlands;

on lower slopes
crocosmia smoulders
in the coarse grass;

hydrangeas
spill over the stone wall
of Treneglos

(hortensia
like a blousy barmaid
at the pumps).

The roofs of shops
(towers of beach clutter
locked in the dark)

draw the lazy
eye to the sun’s minted
after-image.

The sky in this
lighter aquamarine,
just, than the sea.

Perfect, you said,
bar the off-centre plug
of bird-white rock.

That, you’d leave out
your composition: Sea,
mixed media.

     *

Two hours before,
Sunday’s low-key high tide
prompted retreat

for sun-reddened,
half-cut generations
with Cool-It tubs

and rolled-up mats;
a wet suit dragged along
like the charred skin

of Icarus.
They stepped uncertainly
on slippy stones –

burbles of spume
prodding at red-raw heels –
nudging children,

steadying the old
onto the solid platform
of the world.

Send Letters To:

The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN

letters@lrb.co.uk

Please include name, address, and a telephone number.

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences