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.
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