the eye’s have it

An eyefull

 

a wet monday in Worthing when

drab describes it all – like a squall

the pavement leaden but moist

with a sheen that mourns this day

 

the silk trace of rain resembling a worn mirror

reluctant to record the scene

so I kill time as I wait for my car

to be serviced in a franchise on the edge of town

 

here, I am a tourist on the fringe

of this island I am bound to call my home

the sea, a shifting slate graunching at the shingle

of a beach demarcated by groynes

 

that limp out into temperamental water

barnacles and slime worn into their weathered timber –

they are the nerve endings on the fringe

constantly mocked by tides that respond only to

 

higher pulses that have no remorse for

that hang-dog,  beaten look they leave behind

for tourists and thrill seekers, the off-peak

and the lost and lonely on the beach

 

and in all of this I try to find a common thread

imagining workers behind glass and steel

bricked-up and buoyed by duty and the hours

that pay a mortgage – that make it all seem safe

 

I feel small amongst the flotsam of people with

less pressing concerns as they shuffle

on quiet streets that promise things

like Prospect Place or maybe even Paradise ( a square)?

 

in shops Closing Down with only ‘days to go’

I feel the loss of blood, a dilute imperative

the eking out of time as the air goes out

of a blessing that was once filled with hope

Damage in transit

Damage in transit

 

I live on the border of reason

Often struggling not to disappear

From the frontiers of hope that sometimes

Seem so far away

 

There are days when the emotional weather

Is close to overwhelming

And sand bags around the senses

Are in danger of a breach

 

Then life becomes so tiring

Because, by any measure

Especially those that I impose

Everything falls short

 

And I am left in the claw of dismal

A tightening fist that excludes

Light and hope

That lingers in the gaolers stare

 

For moments like these

Are death

As I reluctantly wear the symbols of life

Why do I bear this grudge

 

Why am I so famished

So torn

Bereft

A living. Dying thing.