Friday, 14 April 2017

Blue Pool


Waiting on Blue Pool bay
for the sea to vacate that seat,
slipping its fingers reluctantly,
caressing the sand with a
curtsy to the drying sun,
leaving a wet frisson of emotion
quivering, then calming to a reflection
of the children looking down at a depth
indiscernibly dark, with a silver bottom
shoal of ghostly fish dead and deep.

Gasping in the welcome panic,
cold thick salt air towering dark-sided
but what's below? Don't know!
Black weed sides squeeze in
and push the swimmer onto the lip
of the basin's trickling jump to the sand
in the bay of amusement in a summer still.
The next and the next, toe their reflection
devastating the mirror's magic
time and again and again.

Weary and nearly done we
sit in the sun that sets in a forge poker
from Tenby, through the knave's triangular eye,
squinting on the salt glistening bodies
of the children of sighing with
the generations who have found
Blue Pool in their days of daring
and running across the washed bay
dodging the bombing gulls, screaming
all together to the dying day glowing
in the mind's eye and sand feet skipping
amongst the starfish heaven on earth.

Climbing tired-sloped back to the sky
grass and bracken moor dunes
pushing them all the way to supper.

Blue Pool calms to the reflected stars
to wait the sea's thunder.

Tomorrow? It's a date.

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