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Bev Stewart Poem
The Storm
We stand at the edge of the sea
Where waves rush towards us like snapping dogs
and high above our heads, the seagulls surf the wind for thrills.
Their noisy squawks and calls cannot be ignored,
As the storm carries them upon its windy back,
To deposit them above the harbour.
The weather worsens, so we head towards the pub in the harbour,
While the thrashing nauseous sea
Finds things that it had long hidden and throws them back:
The wood from a boat, a fishing pole, the rubber balls from a hundred dogs.
Looked over by beachcombers but mostly ignored.
These are not the things that bring them thrills.
Then those who find that surfing, thrills,
Come up mob-handed, these strange, seal-like creatures, from the harbour,
and the tempest is ignored.
As they rush, laughing towards the sea.
This angry sea told about in tales by old sea dogs.
They surf on to the beach, then turn and swim back.
We carry on to shelter. Turning back,
we see the seagulls have forsaken their wind-swept thrills
and stand around, begging like hungry dogs,
In the pub carpark, on the harbour.
But coach trip visitors who have come for the day to the sea,
Cram into the pub, to avoid the storm and the seagulls are ignored.
The sign that reads ‘No Wet Clothes in The Bar’ has been ignored.
When they’ve dried and eaten, they’ll go back,
To tell their friends about the angry sea
and how, in a tiny whitewashed pub, they found safe harbour.
They came for thrills,
And ate hot dogs.
We sat on the carpet in front of the fire like two wet dogs,
The singeing smell from our clothes was ignored.
As we dried ourselves in that cold harbour.
And resolved to go back
to see what thrills
had been left in our house for us, by our neighbour the sea.
Later in the pub, stories of the sea
are told by the locals, the old ‘Sea Dogs’,
But today, everyone thrills
to their tales and they are not ignored.
For we all live around this harbour,
And now we really must head back.
Copyright © Bev Stewart | Year Posted 2018
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Bev Stewart Poem
On Being Late
There’s this girl who walks the High Street,
She’s dead but does not know.
She never gets to work,
Was hit by a bus, London, red, number 2 2 0.
She hurries down the pavement,
Goes through her same routine.
She was late you see.
She then replays the scene.
A shout, a scream,
And prone upon the road she lies.
Threw caution to the wind.
The driver, with his head down cries.
She darted out.
To be late forever.
Copyright © Bev Stewart | Year Posted 2018
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Bev Stewart Poem
The girl kneels on the concrete slabs.
Dipping her hand into the water-
She spooks the carp within.
Laughing, she drops in tiny crumbs of bread,
That float around like little boats.
Suddenly, the carp are back,
Gobbling the bread from below.
She sits back, hugging herself with joy.
She’d love to take up a fish
And holding its slimy body
In her tiny hands.
She’d plant a kiss upon its scaly head.
Copyright © Bev Stewart | Year Posted 2018
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Bev Stewart Poem
I see her sometimes,
When the cold autumn air,
Causes blinds to be pulled down,
and fires to be lit.
She sits in a chair,
That is no longer there.
I watch her
while she sits.
Her dress is of the palest blue,
Forget-me-nots
Embroidered on the sleeves.
She knows I watch her,
and she does not care,
But if I try to speak to her,
she leaves.
Sometimes she sits contentedly,
Other times she cries.
I would love to know the story,
Of her life,
and her demise.
Copyright © Bev Stewart | Year Posted 2018
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