To the sea from the heart.





Cold start, thumb cart,
as a main line,
through muse and red shoes,
blowin' away the blues.

Empty long train,
quiet brain,
sing a serenade,
of screw machines and bicycles,
of love and re cycled tricycles,
melting the icicles,
of the mind.

The children scream for the boat,
light hurts as it should,
cafe's open up with warmth
and bonhomie,
as I tried to entice old ladies,
a full double six into the cafe.

Of brass buttons and air force serge,
the lace wedding with black shiny victory shoes,
light dapple colour and hues.

Smokin' an tokin' my schemes away,
the shingle as the beach,
is being stolen today,
the little corners of a soft dusty dream,
lost in quiet of a blood, red, banal book shop scene.


But fucks and ducks
bucket back yards,
long gone the sailors
and the rifle shards.

Slow slow, quick quick slow,
fall of the pier,
they dislike the tourists,
only slightly more than brickies and painters,
but oh so well done,
the silence and the smugness,
waiting to consume you as if someone else's,
dilettante novel,
as bad dreams
a wet scene.

But then it is only a village,
forgets its manners,
their is no future in death,
as flooded coast lines,
falling into the sea,
with Dunkirk grace.

As a thousand Russian Jews,
go into the bookshop,
reclaim their ancestors suffering.
from the indifferent hippie,
to buy enough love so's she can retire.

After fish so hot and soft it must have had,
a good life,
back to Jane's,
where drifting on the bed,
under the knitted coloured square,
springy softness,
with lamb in the fridge.

Her man breezed in,
with Devon cider,
as soft as blushing wine,
tart as a dirty suck,
with wet fingers,
in the hot hay field with daisies,
all the love of Hastings's crazies.

The thunder grumbled like old TB wards,
the rain wet the tourists and the plants,
radio 4 sounded less condescending.

We went scouting for junk shops and magic,
found a traveller,
who took me for a toke
and the best pictures,
because love was exchanging addresses,
his spade and fork,
were well tied to his bike.

As a bucket and spade,
hanging of a baby buggy.


More consuming,
but knowing our holiday would be fixed,
by things that reminded us,
of other things we bought.

Their are many magicians here,
young and frazzled,
talking themselves down,
but keeping the truth of it,
so as not to be hurt,
or to saintly.

Madness is no big deal here,
just an interlude in a full life.


Last of the communist East European wine,
it tastes good
and will soon cost twice as much a bottle,
or maybe they will sell it to us cheaper,
as a gift for the future,
of quiet afternoons talking with strangers,
who seemed to know us
and were interested.

The quiet radio of a spliff beer,
Saturday night,
finishing of the strands of this small embroidered hankie.

So as to waive it,
as the train pulls out tomorrow
and we leave this slow paradise behind,
for the gentle people
and our hopes not yet faded.

~