Greenlane Poetry

All Saints 3pm
Bad Day
Bar des Sports, Charly-sur-Marne
Before and After the Watershed
Call to Witness
Carte Postale
Clerk of Works
Dog in the Night
Easter Saturday at Festubert
Force Nine
Forge Island
Four Chimneys
Half Empty
Homeward Bound
In Glen Howe Park
In Provence
Kilner's Bridge
Last Train
Lilac Time
Mungy Lane
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North Line
Painting By Numbers
Per Ardua
Routine Visit
Silent Snakes
Spring Training
Students in Crookesmoor
The Don at Swinton
The Festive Season
The Runners in the Fields
The Seasons
Treatment Days
Trips to the Seaside
Up Train
Valley Mist
Weston Park
What Love Is
Winthrop Park


Trips to the Seaside

The dim lamp of a memory always shines
A brighter beam in one way than in most
I am walking in the sunlight by the coast

Some boys are burning driftwood on the beach
I dimly see the trees, which are in bud
A girl is on the path which leaves the wood

The path slopes to a pill-box, concrete blocks
Slanted where the waves have smashed them down
Primroses fleck the banks. Her legs are brown.

The leaves are dripping gently in the rain
A riot of late roses scents the air
I cannot see the colour of her hair

The sea-spray hurls across the shingle bank
The tide has piled up seaweed on the sand
We are walking to the tide-pools hand in hand

I am kicking up the dead leaves where they drift
The trees put up their gaunt arms to the skies
I remember now the colour of her eyes

I am peering through a gorse bush on the cliff
I can almost touch the seagulls where they pass
There is crimson with the coltsfoots in the grass

The bitter snow has banked up in the wood
The storm has spent its fury on the sand
I hold eternal memory of her but not her hand