Greenlane Poetry

Trips to the Seaside

The dim lamp that is memory often shines
a brighter beam in one way than in most
I am walking in the sunlight by the coast
Young 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
and can almost touch the seagulls where they pass
there are snowflakes 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