THE REACH OF OLD ’60
To the end of the pier, we marched
Fifty cents lighter, uncharacteristically triumphant,
Surprised at our own spontaneous move.
Away from the super-sized accents, buffet breakfasts
and awful, chaotic bedspreads –
And out to the middle of the great sea,
A scent of fishermen’s lives and
a distant, flickering memory of neon ‘vacancy’ signs
At the end of the pier, we stood,
Battling away creeping uncertainty and
staring dark in the face –
“Feels like we’re miles out” from the holiday homes, and
have-a-nice-days. To a fresh salt breeze
and just enough warmth for our t-shirts and shorts.
The occasional guiding glare from a boat sending
ripples of light dancing across black waves
From the end of the pier, we looked
Back to the beach where we’d burned
earlier that afternoon.
Above a coastline littered with high-rise hotels
From Hiltons-to-Hyatts, and stubborn, steadfast motels
The sky began to turn, solid grey inevitable clouds
Gathered and hanging furiously, building and brewing
until with Hammer Horror forked lighting, they broke.
(Written in Florida, April 2013)
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