"Desolation"
This place is forever changing shape
In time all over this garden Isle
Piers will be chomped by fickle waves
Roads will be swallowed by pounding seas
Chines will erode and delicate sandy cliffs
Will collapse from a scraping public, greedy for coloured grains.
But for now enough to squat
On a worldly-wise suitcase
Before a giant-knitting-needle flagpole
And ponder this parade in a natural sheltered harbour
Just after Dawn.
See the early-warning rosy tint of the sky
It's glow mixed with industrial fire
Doesn't threaten with despair
And the wretchedness of the building
Shows a quiet dignity
And the no-man's-land of the scorched earth road
Empty even then amidst the throes of high-class heyday
Curves its own well-defined pathway to an unseen Egypt Point.
But where are all the people?
All the show-offs?
Stepping out and striding along with proud determination
Spying on each others' clothes to spot
Tell-tale signs of hand-me-down mending
Making mental notes not to associate
With "them as lowers the tone". And all the time
They check out their own, their little ones,
And noticeably ignore there phoney fragile
games, experiments with public mask nurture
For future role displays.
And where are all the boats?
Gliding through the blue with their
Sandwich-shape dove sails
And their bobbing and swaying and clanging in more?
And the firework displays?
The brass bands and processions
All gone for now and not yet there
"Would you care for some refreshment?
A brown fizzy drink just out from the states?
Cheers you up they say, it's that secret ingredient!"
The squatting man ignores or doesn't hear.
"Do you think it's really possible that
Three-quarters of our brain be beneath the surface?"
Doesn't see the women in the white hat with red band
Instead he thinks of the mainland, the upstart
Political Party formed by the Trade Unions
The sixteen-year-old anarchist who tried
To shoot the Prince of Wales (and failed).
Paris and a New style Art invented by
A name from Spain which sounds like"Pick our Soul"
He thinks of the U.S.A and the man arrested
In a Boston street for spitting, and of the U.K.
Judge who abolished public right of way to Stonehenge
And of the year. And the new century so far.
What is the world coming to on the here and now
of Little England?
The sense of destruction to come
With all the chaos and abandon
Makes this colourful and timeless wilderness
A comforting connection to a dying world
And it's warming void, a Gentle Desolation
Which sharpens and diminishes with the
Rhythm of the bold blue waters
Across a stony shore
Defining the form of an ever-changing coast
In an ever-changing New World
No gloomy desolation this scene
Not compared to the up and coming ballsup
Will the parade ever yet get started?
Will our boats ever yet come in?
Questions unanswered
All gone for now and not yet there.
'Elsie' Copyright Dec '98
contact chris.liz99@btopenworld.com
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