The weather has been unseasonably warm recently which has allowed us to have Sunday brunch at the beach hut. Usually it's too cold by the middle of November. This post's poem is reportage. I watched a man scatter ashes on to the sea.
the tide is just on the turn
not that he could tell
but it needs it going out
all the way down the worn salt steps
holds the handrail
he fears he might fall
stands on the thin rib of the shore
sea smoothed gravel
footfalls counterpoint the sea
the urn is light but heavy
weight upon his shoulders
unscrews the lid
grey ash onto white water
tips three times
on three outgoing waves
shakes the canister
grey motes on the air
retraces his footprints
I wanted the poem to be spare, economical in its description and with no back story. The focus on the action not the thought.
Here's Toumani and Sidiki Djabati. Such wonderful music.
Until next time.
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