My daughter, a midwife, texted me as the result became clear: there goes the NHS. It is a bleak future.
Another poem started on my brief weekend in Roscoff. The island in the title is a beautiful, small island just off the coast.
Île de Batz
the
sea has removed itself
in
the dirty bay the upright boats are patient
the
sea wall
built
by hand in my grandfather’s day
long
and strong
speaks
of a winter tide
gestated
mid-Atlantic
angry
impatient
no
laughing matter
2.
they
have to close the door a second time
as
if surprised it did not shut itself
or
that the mere act of pulling it towards them
should
be sufficient in itself
the
wind ever opportunistic
barges
through the space
to
remind me I am
mortal
old
thin
blood cold
This is the view from the cafe where I wrote the second poem about the door and the wind.
In the first poem I simply tried to describe the bay. I had a different last line:
I look up from the page
the sand is now a mirror
I rejected it partly because I don't think it works and partly because it anchors the poem in the present and the chosen ending heralds an ominous future.
The second poem I wrote in the bar watching people fail to close the door as they left. To be honest part of their difficulty was the ferocity of the wind.
The photographs are from a beautiful church on the island.
I love stained glass and think it is at its best when the sun shines through it.
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