Get Your Premium Membership

Baltic

Was it a reproduction Of a Rothko in a book resting on his lap, A swathe of black sky over A grey sea, perhaps, That triggered it. He recalled pictures of Brutalist concrete bunkers and silos, Sinister dark steel ramps, That carried doddlebugs and V2 rockets. He relived a moment in a Museum, a Messerschmitt 109, Hanging from the ceiling Tilted at an angle Ready to dive and attack; Remembered black and white grainy WW2 photos inside an album, The fresh faced pilot and crew, Next to a Wellington back from a raid, All smiles and thumbs up. The images came to him tumbling One after the other like slides from a projector. Then he looked up, It wasn’t grey at all. As if imitating the Rothko, The cloudless sky, Floated over a calm, Cobalt blue sea. He got up from the sun bed, Dusted gold sand from his feet And headed towards The beach bar. He thought of stopping For a drink, then decided not to, The people were too noisy And the techno-music too loud, This was Sopot 2014 after all. Crossing the wooden walkway To his hotel, he saw His girlfriend. She was showing A woman an amber necklace She had bought the day before At the market. He moved closer; as the Woman held the necklace Towards the light, He noticed a dark spot on one Of the stones, It was a fly, trapped, And screaming to get out.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019




Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.

Please Login to post a comment
Date: 3/23/2020 4:43:00 PM
Wow! very good!
Login to Reply