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Personal Note:

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Poem


I

when the world had no headsets
the sunbathing crowd
fell asleep to the sounds of
transistors played loud
while the deckchairs and windbreaks
kites, beach balls and more
formed the stripes, lines and circles
that painted the shore
and the longer I walked
on the sand to that sea
the more the sea seemed
to get further from me
and the crunch in my mouth
was that one grain of sand
in the sandwich I ate 
from my sand covered hand
while the lemons and melons
and plums I'd watch spin
would stop short of a cherry
one click from a win
and the postcards we sent
from the end of the pier
had us writing such half truths
as "wish you were here."


II

from the end of the pier
through the stiff breeze
and spindrift
I can still hear the tunes
of the promenade bands

and I can still see the stripes
of the deckchairs and windbreaks
and the box kites
and beach balls
that painted the shore

and I can still taste
the butter
 - warm like the canned ham
and the crunch of that sand
in the sandwich I had

and I can still hear the djs
laughing and talking
spinning hits of the sixties
from transistors
played loud

and I can still smell the onions
frying wild in the fairground
to the sound of the claxons
and the lemon. click. orange. click. melon.
click. click.

and I can still breathe the deep smoke
swirling in sand dunes
from the benson and hedges
and 
player's no.6

and I can still see those grown ups
staring at mirrors
 - their bodies distorted
like the dreams
they once had

today on the pier
the rain that's now falling
falls from a same sky
on a same sand
and same sea
 
and a same me

yet this air

this air
is not the same air
as that air I
once 
breathed.

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