An image from PwP Inspiration Corner
We think we’ve seen scene laid before -
for promenaded esplanade
recall when sea and sky seemed one,
lie hex, indistinguishable.
Horizon melt, waned ochre hue,
embracing both sky, briny blue,
for sunset haze but tepid glow -
but we assume staged sight, a norm.
The vanish point, feint watermark,
a silhouette, pair folding seats,
stark lines we too have lounged about
speak memories of sand on strand.
No paddle, sure, turn-ups knee-rolled,
green canvas deck chairs stacked in pile
by ticket man of UDC,
but empty frames yet unresolved.
Some make-up stories, what’s at stake,
search Thermos flask, or bucket, spade,
a landfill site for that Celeste,
and dawning, wonder, early hour?
I hear no shrieks of grandkids, beach,
and question, have these crossed the bar -
a desolation from afar;
maybe two mispers, files somewhere?
'Mispers' - I had never heard this word until I read your poem and what awonderful word it is conjuring up all sorts of imagery just as your poem does.
Enigmatic, wordplay, and of course the Kingsnorth style. I've given your Art some thought a few times but this week revisited via the above,( the poem not Heaven). The culling of rhyme and indeed any and all not strictly needed words, leaves me expecting to find a poem that reads like a list, but it does not! Somehow it flows/ reads easily, and is a treasure!