THE PERSON FROM PORLOCK


 

early one morning

 I saw this horse

standing like horses do

because lying down would entail  getting up –

all those long slender legs to organize

to raise its  heavy   barrel of a body

(not to mention the long neck

…..and that big head)

against the fearsome force of gravity.

Meanwhile the sun was lighting up the autumn leaves,

whitening and brightening the pale and acrid smoke,

casting long, long shadows

across the yellowing grass.

and later on I saw this hare

couched in the grass

(no, I didn’t mean ‘crouched’,

though ‘crouched’ would have done  just as well)

huddled in the long green grass,

thinking either it was invisible

or I was blind

or both

so I was able to sneak up quite close.

*

The whirr of the shutter

and it was off like a shot.

I

then in the sunny afternoon,

strange for our northern autumn,

two families wandered barefoot

onto the sunlit beach,

doing what people on beaches do:

drawing with  heel and toe,

geometric shapes in the sand

or

using  inadequate   buckets

and bendy  plastic spades

to build Canute castles and moats

against the incoming tide

or

rescuing odd things –

dolls’ heads, old ropes, tyres;

sea-sculpted pebbles

so good to handle;

sea-smoothed driftwood

sculpted by Giacometti;

ancient bottles with messages  for help

signed by Robinson Crusoe….

stuff like that…..

or

just gazing,

gazing out to sea

but not really looking at or for anything,

letting the mind  free-wheel

like a bicycle

on a gentle downhill slope,

or

like Sisyphus,

standing, hands on hips,

watching his  great lump of a stone

go rumpetytumpetytumpetytump

all the way

down

to the bottom

of

the

hill.

Then out of  Tay’s curacao-blue

I saw this weathered mooring stick

rise from its own reflection and –

Excaliber  minus holding hand –

impressively priapic

stand.

*

And now

when on my couch I lie

in vacant or in pensive mood

and  find

only these pictures

flashing  through my mind,

and  sip my drink and  reminisce……

while I grant that this,

remembered images, the stuff

of poetry, the bliss

of solitude,

may be for some reward enough

it’s  not for me

so, like the man from Porlock,

please  intrude.

——

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