A Day In Arcadia
You leave the car at what was once,
in old reality, a farm and where the
National Trust democratise so now not cows
but parking motorists feel alarm.
Across a road are loos, ex milking parlours
still with “stools” and piss
as folk make moves to
an archway leading to a long curved lane
edged with a guard of reeds that,
while obstructing the view ahead
incite its anticipation.
Conducting the children, we lead them
to where the pathway fairs into the beach
framed by those stalks high reach
from their rooting in Arcadia.
Some fresh reality as we quicken pace
through that narrow place into entrancement,
a shout of elements where the claustrophobe
of routines in small spaces erodes into the
expansive sunbed of yielding pearl toned grains.
Here we claim our place below a trope of
salt drenched thrift and campion sea slopes
barricading us from the insomnious land breeze
that keeps conscious plain life.
Copyright © Rick Howarth | Year Posted 2018
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