We fished off the pier in carefree days
when girls wore tartan trews.
In endless summer sun we’d laze
when Tommy Steele was “Singing the Blues”.
Now it’s saffron robes and no-take zones,
maybe coffee in the cafe at the pier,
replaced by ubiquitous mobile phones,
like conversation, things just disappear.
clearing morning mist
silhouetted hills in view
Arran ferry
streamlined gannets
Holy Isle in view
the long journey ends
Half sunk in peat and sodden moss,
redundant, clutching at the sky.
Rough stones nearby tell of a loss
long past. We look and can but try
to see beyond this relic on the hill
and hear the plaintive echoes still.
The air was pure and bright. A sea-salt tingle
hovered in an easygoing offshore breeze.
In mesmerising rhythm, wavelets sloshed
and swished along the timeworn jetty wall.
The bay was sparkling in the morning light
as early gannets hungrily patrolled
their crystal-clear domain.Slight movement now
within the overnighting boats, safe moored,
serenely sheltered at the break of day.
A swan flotilla, now near fully grown
and all in a row, in silence glided by,
exploring weed and tidal offerings
under a careful matriarchal eye.
The year was moving on, the midges gone,
and still the little ferry ploughed its course
across the bay, its passengers intent
on finding peace and personal content.
The cafe at the pier, with clinking cups,
was heralding the day, with early starters,
few in number now. The summer throng
dispersed and homeward bound, to feed
on memories. For some, like me,
a fitting epitaph might be
“He lived his life in thoughts of Arran “.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.