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Summer Perdition
after Berck-Plage, by Sylvia Plath
(1)
A sheet of glass, this expanse of water.
How its tranquillity mocks my unrest.
Bloated beachballs and balloons
travel the park and float from diminutive hands.
Bodiless voices call in the sun
and bounce off these sizzling surfaces.
It is not surprising I wear cool clothing
and masquerade serenity.
Swollen laburnum pods harbour their horror -
wombs cradling their malignancies.
Such outward masks of innocence!
And the leaves of the willow
mournfully fish the water that stretches into distance
further than vision.
Blossom strews the ground like confetti.
A green leaf anchors in my hair.
(2)
At the station things roll into vision -
travelling paraphernalia, fluorescent strip lighting.
I ride the escalator unsteadily.
I am concealing the necessary:
magazines, menstrual pads, folded clothing -
appurtenances of normality.
My respectable patent heels tap hollowly
over the cobbles, the cracked paving stones.
These old garden walls
wear thin skins of lichen now.
Sunlight winks on windowsills,
glittering white paint and ceramic bowls of plants.
Wallflowers scramble up the trellis,
shockingly yellow,
their pollen cloying and clawing air.
Canvas chairs create a Neapolitan facade:
pastel stripes sitting on pink.
One paisley curtain is fluttering
from a high open window.
Already your tenuous grip lets go.
What throttling helplessness in the throat...
Frantic fingers sift and pick over
the desperate possibilities
contained in the musty depths of suitcases,
the shadows of cool stone cottages.
These walls retain the scent of bergamot,
reminiscent of relinquished summers,
the redolence lingering in the pastel decor.
(3)
There is no anchor in this terrible sea.
Counsellors bring the modest comforts of select words,
cultivated smiles and cups of tea.
They attempt to smother my fear.
O cheap chipped crockery
and scalding spirals of steam.
Rings encircle these defenceless fingers
that crawl over the tea trays like insects -
cold quoits, surgical silver.
Rubies and sapphires bear testimony to obscene betrayal.
In the hollow months an emptiness will tug at me
like dragging menstrual aches.
Young limbs lie helpless and inert,
motionless under starched coverlets.
Something predatory prowls the floor.
A phantom protection is all I claw.
Copyright ©
Charlotte Puddifoot
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